A Place to Call Home
by Cadsuane
Summary: Several years after the Blight, a drunken Alistair finds a chance at a new life.
1. Chapter 1

This story started off a prompt on the kmeme (I know, I know) where the prompter requested:

_Anon would like to see a happy ending for the 'wandering drunk' Alistair ending. I'd like to see him end up with someone who wasn't in the game. So I'm asking for a original character that can be anything your heart desires anon, as long as its fluffy. _

_Anon would also like the happy ending not to come the night before going to the calling either. lol Let's give him some time to feel happy. :)_

Ravenia and I put our heads together and brainstormed for a while. This was the result. A big thanks to Xandurpein who helped with the fight scenes.

Right now, this story is rated "T," but will eventually move to "M." We plan to release two chapters a day on a M-W-F schedule. If you like it, please drop Ravenia at least a quick note. She did so much for this story and while she'll see the reviews here, I feel badly that we can't release under both names here. Enjoy!

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_Setting: Six years after the end of the Blight. Ostwick, the Free Marches._

**Chapter One**

Looking at the cart she used to haul her baked goods to the marketplace, Maeve sighed. It had been a good day and most of her wares had sold. She had coin in her pocket and enough left over for dinner tonight. This was the only part of her day that she hated.

Grasping the handles of her cart, she began to walk home. Maybe if she was quick enough, she could avoid Brin and his gang of petty thugs. It was hard enough making a living here without them bleeding everyone in the market of what little they had.

Familiar laughter ahead of her made her cringe. Bastards seemed to be waiting for her this time.

Swaggering before her, Brin dripped cocky arrogance. He was a nobleman's bastard and better off than most of the people here. The worst of what he and his gang did was they didn't steal for the money. He did it because he was a sadistic prick. Frowning, she stared at the ground in front of her, her eyes seeing only his boots and the lower half of his leggings.

"Well, well, what have we here? The pretty pie lady. And what's in that cart smells so good. A feast for the senses." He stepped close to her.

She hated his insistence on physical proximity, as if by dominating and invading the very air around her, she would fold and give in to him. Touching a lock of the strawberry blonde that had escaped the careful bun at the nape of her neck, he leaned forward and sniffed it.

Frowning, she tried to keep her voice calm. "Just take the damn food and go, Brin."

"Maybe I want more than that, Maeve."

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a portion of her day's earnings—she always kept a small amount hidden in her boot or she'd have starved long ago—and shoved the small collection of coins at him. "Fine, here's what I made today. Keep bleeding me dry and I won't have anything left to buy flour. Then how would you and your gang feed yourselves? Now let me pass."

He laughed. "Getting feisty, aren't you, Maeve? But then, that's why I like you, and that's not what I meant."

His arm went around her waist and she tried to pull back, but there was no escape with the cart behind her.

"Let me pass, Brin. I'm tired and sweaty. I just want to go home." Maybe if she made herself seem less attractive to him, he would drop it and let her go on her way.

He leaned in close, smelling her hair. "But I like how you smell, Maeve."

From behind Brin, a man cleared his throat. "Ahem…I believe the lady asked you to let her pass."

_Oh, Maker_, Maeve prayed. She had this under control. _Please, no, don't antagonize him._

Looking past Brin to the newcomer, she sighed. It was that drunk who spent his days either in the tavern or under the overhang just outside it. His clothes were ill fitting and filthy, and he stank of cheap ale and unwashed flesh. His dirty brown hair hung in uneven, greasy strands to his shoulders. He could barely stand up straight, yet he appeared ready to defend her from Brin and his friends.

"What's this?" Brin asked aloud. "You have an admirer, Maeve!"

His friends laughed at the joke.

"I'm merely asking you to let the lady pass," the drunk replied, with a manner that seemed to belie his unkempt features.

Brin frowned. There was something unnerving about the man's unnatural calm.

"Hass, show this stupid drunk to not interfere with our business," Brin called and pointed at a large, heavyset man among in his group.

"Sure thing, Brin," the man called Hass replied and stepped forward. He crouched and prepared to strike the drunken man.

Maeve squinted to avoid looking too closely. She'd seen Hass dislocate a man's jaw with a single hit of his huge fists before.

Hass stepped in and threw a heavy punch straight at the other man's face, but at the last second the drunk stepped aside and the punch missed. Hass momentarily lost his balance and staggered forward. Then the drunk struck a blow on Hass's temple and Hass simply continued forward to fall into a heap on the ground.

For a moment the drunk stood swaying, before he straightened himself and looked calmly at the rest of Brin's gang.

"Now would you please let the lady pass or do we have to have more unpleasantness?"

Brin stared at him slack jawed for a moment, then called to his gang.

"That's it! Thod, Agon, Lanner, get him!"

The other three thugs moved warily towards the stranger, giving him a cursory amount of respect for felling their friend. They had him outnumbered, but none were eager to join Hass on the ground.

The drunk awaited them, seemingly at ease—even if he swayed slightly. Then he took two steps to the right and swung at Agon, a thin dark haired man. Agon managed to avoid the punch, but he stumbled into Thod, his bigger friend next to him. This caused them both to momentarily lose their concentration, and the drunk stepped in and slugged Agon in the stomach.

Maeve watched the fight with a horrified fascination. The stranger seemed to be calm and in control even as he fought three opponents. Then she saw the third man, Lanner, charge at him shouting with flailing fists. The drunk saw him and stepped aside, but this meant he lost eye contact with Thod. The big man crouched and swung his fist in a hook that took the drunk straight in the face.

Maeve shuddered as she heard the sound of what must have been the bridge of the man's nose breaking. She expected the drunk to fall over, but he just stood there swaying and grinning madly with blood running from his nose.

Then she saw movement from the corner of her eye. Brin had carefully circled around the drunk and was now almost behind him. He bent down and picked up a cobblestone. Maeve was frozen with indecision. She knew she should use the opportunity to get away, but if she didn't say anything, Brin might kill the man.

Lanner and Thod spread out and carefully closed on the drunk who still stood rooted there, with blood flowing down his face. While they kept his attention, Brin stealthily approached from behind.

Maeve bit her lip and just as Brin almost was in range, she screamed, "Behind you!"

The drunk tried to turn around, but he was too late. Brin hit him in the head with the cobblestone. Thod stepped in at the same time, aiming his blows at the man's torso. He went down in a boneless heap. Turning as he fell, his leg twisted at an odd angle when he landed.

"That's it! Stop it all of you!"

_Thank the Maker_, Maeve thought to herself as she heard the new voice. It was Jakon, an intimidating guardsman she became friends with when her husband had worked with him.

"Throw him in jail!" Brin shouted angrily. "He attacked us without any provocation."

"That's not true!" Maeve burst out.

Brin shot her a venomous glance and Maeve realized that she'd be in trouble for not keeping her mouth shut.

"Just get out of here," Jakon commanded Brin and his fellows. Brin looked as if he was going to protest, but then he gruffly ordered Lanner and Thod to pick up Hass, who was still lying in the street, and they all left.

Jakon leaned over the prostrate man, his face hard, but not without compassion.

"Poor sod, drunk and stumbling and yet here he is trying to help. He's seen better days."

Maeve stepped closer, also looking down at the injured man. "Is he hurt badly?"

"No, he'll live, but he's going to be hurting when he wakes up."

"I've seen him around. He's usually pretty quiet and keeps to himself," she said.

He scratched his head. "Well, maybe I should take him to the jail. Judging by the sky, it's going to rain pretty heavily tomorrow, and at least it's a safe, dry place for him to sober up in."

She looked down at the drunk and the injuries he sustained trying to help her. It didn't seem fair for him to end up in jail for doing something _good_ when Brin and his gang had gotten away.

"That jail is so dirty, Jakon. He needs someplace quiet where he won't get picked on. Some of the other guards aren't as nice as you are. Help me get him home."

Jakon looked at her, frowned and then shook his head. "Maeve, Robert would never forgive me if I let something happen to you. We don't know this man."

"Robert is dead and this man tried to stop Brin from hurting me. That says a lot."

"Yes, well, that's hardly a reason to take him into your home," he sighed.

"I'll take the risk. My house is clean and dry, and he can sleep it off there. Not to mention someone should take a look at his face and head. We can't leave him like that."

Jakon frowned again, but Maeve knew he wouldn't argue too much with her about it. In the end, and with a good deal of muttering under his breath, he helped get the drunk in her cart and pulled him to her small cottage.

Once at her house, she pulled out a hand woven rug she used occasionally when she had visitors and they set the man on it.

"If he gives you the slightest trouble, Maeve, you come get me," said Jakon.

"He won't."

With a shake of his head, Jakon left while she pulled the cart into the little shed adjoining her house and Maeve went back into the house to stare down at her guest.

"Well, what am I to do with you?" she asked.

He was filthy and stank of cheap ale, sweat and the odors of the odd and disgusting jobs he must have engaged in to support his drinking. The type of work no one else would do except the drunks who didn't have any other recourse. If he was going to recuperate here, he would have to be cleaned up.

Rebuilding the fire, she grabbed a large pot and went outside to ladle some water from a large rain barrel into it, came back in and placed it on a hook at the end of a metal arm. Then she pushed it over the fire to heat. While she waited, she cut herself some cheese off a wheel that was fast diminishing, broke off a small piece of bread and sat on a stool eating while the water was heating.

Brushing her hands off, she gathered what she would need. Some rags and a strong lye soap to start with, and then a set of Robert's old clothes and small sharp knife. What the drunk was wearing wouldn't be suitable for rags even if they were cleaned and there was no point in trying to salvage them.

When it was ready, she poured some of the water into the bucket and brought it over to where he lay on a pallet on her floor. Frowning, she looked at him. She sighed at the thought of trying to wash his hair and beard. Those would have to be cut before she even attempted to wash them.

Maeve fetched her scissors, a comb and Robert's old razor, and kneeling beside him and using two fingers as a guide, began cutting his hair short. With horror, she realized that his hair was infested with fleas and other parasites. She shuddered and bit back a gag, but didn't stop. It had to be done and doubtless his garments were as filled. Once his hair was done, a sharp razor put to his cheeks and chin soon had the beard removed. She gathered the waste in a rag and flung it into the street outside.

Dipping a rag into the bucket and rubbing some of the strong soap on it, she started with his hair, washing away the dirt and accumulated body oils caking it. Once she got it clean, she saw that it wasn't the brown she'd thought, but more of a dark honey blond. She washed his face, cleaning away blood from where he'd been struck in his nose during the fight.

Biting her lip, she checked to make sure he was still unconscious, and then quickly and carefully reset his broken nose. He flinched and groaned beneath her hands, but mercifully didn't wake up. She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful she'd already had that experience from Robert.

Moving down his neck and shoulders, she cut off his shirt, and after carefully noting his bruises and cuts, continued his bath.

Some of his wounds looked old and the evidence he had seen better days was written on his body. Old battle scars—long healed—crisscrossed his torso and arms, and while he had the paunch one would expect from someone who had spent several years in the bottom of a wine bottle, his muscles were defined enough to show he'd once made his living as a soldier. Her fingers lingered over them, pondering where he had fought so hard. Maybe Ferelden? There'd been fighting there a few years ago—mercenaries would have done well then. Robert certainly had.

Maeve wondered what had driven him to this point. Surely he'd known better days in his youth. She removed his boots and trousers, noting with a flush that he was a bit better endowed than her husband had been. _Inappropriate, Maeve_, she scolded herself and turned back to the task at hand.

Trying her best to ignore that, she used the rest of the water in the bucket to finish getting him cleaned up. Fortunately he and Robert were of a similar build and the clean clothes would fit him. Finally, she took a small file she used for herself and carefully cleaned under his nails.

Once she had him cleaned and a fresh shirt and trousers on him—no easy chore, she'd forgotten how much of a dead weight a large, unconscious man was—and some bandages on the worst of his injuries, she felt better. He'd probably go right back to drinking tomorrow, but for tonight he had a dry roof over his head, clothes on his back and a clean pallet to lay on instead of a dirty tavern floor or the hard ground.

Looking down at her handiwork, she was very pleased. Tilting her head to the side, she looked at him carefully. Despite his current state, he was surprisingly handsome.

Gathering up the remnants of his old garments and holding them at arm's length to toss into a bin outside for burning later, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders to stave off the evening air and stepped outside. She should go over to the apothecary to pick up some delousing treatment and maybe something to ease his hangover, as she suspected it would be pretty bad tomorrow. If she was going to help, she might as well go all the way.

She wondered briefly _why_ she was going through so much trouble for the stranger and then shook her head. Whatever he was, she'd be a lot worse off if he hadn't intervened tonight. It was the least she could do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Warmth.

That was the first thing Alistair was aware of when he came to. Before the throbbing agony in his skull, ribs and ankle intruded and made themselves known, he became aware that he was _warm_. Then he felt the pain and just lay quietly for several minutes, waiting for the first wave of it to pass.

When the initial haze of agony lifted, he became aware of several other things, almost all at once. The first was that he was lying down on something soft and there was a weight pressing down on him. It wasn't painful—more a comforting sort of weight he could feel from shoulders to feet. The second was that he could hear someone moving around, humming to themselves. There was also something else different about him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Gingerly slitting his eyes open, he looked around. He was in a house, lying on the floor on a sort of makeshift pallet before a fireplace, and covered with a thick blanket. At first glance, the room was large, but he quickly realized that was because it served several purposes. There were two heavy chairs dragged off to the side near the fireplace, obviously meant to be in front of it where he was currently laying. A small table with two chairs was tucked neatly against a wall, and there were a couple of small chests that served as low tables.

On the walls hung small bundles of dried herbs and flowers, and a shelf held a handful of books. A closed door opposite the front door most likely led to a bedroom. The other end of the room was taken up by a cooking area with another, larger hearth. The counters were crammed with things he couldn't make out and gleaming pots and pans hung from the ceiling. There was also a large work table in the middle of the kitchen and that was where the humming was coming from.

A woman worked at the table. She was facing him, but all of her attention was focused on kneading the dough in front of her. She wore a plain shirt and trousers with a flour dusted apron over them, and her reddish-blonde hair was caught at the nape of her neck. This was obviously her home, and from the smell filling the room, she was baking.

Alistair had no idea how he'd gotten here.

"Where—" he began, but broke off. His voice was harsh, raspy, sounding more like he spent his time swallowing rusty blades than speaking, which given what he usually drank, was a somewhat accurate description. The woman's head snapped up, slight surprise on her features as she realized he was awake. He swallowed, trying to get enough moisture in his throat to continue the question.

She hastily wiped her hands on a small towel, grabbed a pitcher and mug, and came toward him. Setting the mug and pitcher down, she knelt next to him and helped him sit up. Alistair put a hand to his head at the agony the movement caused. That was when he became aware of what had felt different before, but that he couldn't quite place.

His hand touched first the clean shaven skin of his face and then the short cropped hair on his head. Blinking, he looked down.

He was _clean_.

In addition to the shave and haircut he'd received, his skin was clean, scrubbed of the accumulated dirt and grime. Even his fingernails had been cleaned and trimmed neatly. The filthy rags he had worn were gone, replaced with a simple yet well cared for pair of pants and a shirt.

Before he could ponder it anymore, the mug—full of water now—was thrust in front of his face.

"Here," the unknown woman said. "Drink this."

He practically snatched it from her hand, drinking greedily. The mug held only water, but it was cool and clear, a balm to the scratchiness in his throat.

"Easy now," she said as he drained the mug in a few large gulps. "I'll give you more in a minute. Let that settle first."

She took the mug from him, setting it back down beside her.

This time when he spoke, his voice wasn't quite so raspy. "Where am I?" he asked.

The woman looked slightly bemused at his question, but there was no laughter or mockery in her voice when she answered. "You're in my house. And before you ask, I'm Maeve Bannon. And you are?"

If he could have thought of a fake name, he might have given her one. But as it was, his mind was completely blank and struggling to come up with something was too much effort. "Alistair," he mumbled.

"Well, Alistair, welcome to my humble home. How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

Fully awake now, he could feel a hangover pounding behind his eyes, and all his other assorted hurts were making themselves known. There was a large knot just behind his left ear, and it didn't help the ache from his hangover. Touching his left side gently, where most of that pain seemed to be focused, he winced. Cracked ribs—hopefully they weren't broken. If they were just cracked, they'd heal quickly enough, but broken ribs would lay him up for weeks. His right ankle also felt stiff, the muscles tight and screaming in protest when he tried to flex it. Shit. That wasn't good.

"I'm sorry," Maeve murmured, and refilled the mug for him.

He drank slower this time, actually drinking and not just downing the liquid as quickly as possible. "Thank you," he said, handing the mug back and looking around. "How did I get here?"

Maeve frowned slightly. "You don't remember anything from last night?"

He started to shake his head, and then stopped as the movement set of sharp stabs of pain through his head. "No," he answered. "Nothing."

"Ah. Well, on my way home last night I was accosted by some…thugs. You…tried to help."

Alistair laughed bitterly. "Did I? Obviously, I acquitted myself in my usual fashion—poorly. Didn't answer my question though. How did I end up here?"

"You were injured. I couldn't just leave you there. Jakon, the guard who broke up the fight, was going to let you sleep it off in jail, but I convinced him to help me bring you here."

It was Alistair's turn to frown. "Why would you do that?"

"Because…you were injured." She said it slowly, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Jail wasn't where you should have gone in your condition."

He snorted derisively. "So you brought a strange, possibly violent drunk into your home because you felt sorry for him? That's just stupid. You don't know me. You have no reason to trust me."

Her lips thinned as she stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry you feel that way."

He flinched slightly as she set the mug and pitcher down on the counter hard, the sounds making his head hurt more. _You're a real bastard, Alistair_, he thought. _Way to go_.

"Listen, I don't want to sound ungrateful. Thanks for what you did. I appreciate it even if I didn't do anything to deserve it. I won't burden you any longer." Pushing the blanket off him, he wondered if he'd be able to get to his feet. He was also going to need his boots—however they didn't appear to be anywhere in sight.

"What are you doing?" She stood watching him, disbelief evident on her face.

"Leaving?" That should have been obvious.

"You can't!"

He blinked at her. "I can't? What? Are you keeping me prisoner here?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Gesturing towards the shuttered windows, she continued, "First, it's pouring outside, and I doubt you have anywhere dry to go. Second, you can barely stand, let alone walk. You won't make it a dozen steps before you're on your face again. And third, you helped me. Let me repay you. Stay a couple days. A warm, dry place to sleep and some hot food will do you some good."

The mention of food, combined with the scent of baking bread, made his stomach rumble. Maeve grinned. "See? Your body knows better than your head does."

It was tempting. Maker, it was tempting. Even as beat up as he was, he felt better than he had in the longest time. The thought of staying here was the most alluring thing he could remember being offered in years. He'd called her stupid, but he'd be a complete idiot—not to mention a total ass—to turn her down.

"Two days," he said grudgingly.

"We'll see," she replied, smiling. Then she grimaced slightly. "If you're going to stay, though, there's something I need you to do."

Maeve turned, opened a cabinet and removed a small clay jar. She walked back and held it out, and he took it from her with a frown. Working the cork out, he looked in to see a thick, dark ointment inside. He took a sniff and recoiled from the sharp medicinal smell that burned his nasal passages.

"What's this for?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's for you," she said quietly.

"I'd gathered that. But what is it _for_?"

She blushed. "Well, you've been living hard for awhile now. People in…your situation tend to acquire…passengers. The apothecary told me you have to apply the ointment everywhere you have…hair, leave it for several minutes and then wash with hot water. It should kill everything. Then we can boil the bedding to get any that escaped."

Her voice had dropped to little more than a whisper as she talked. Alistair could feel the flush crawling over his cheeks and down his neck and chest. Shame such as he hadn't felt in a very long time made his gut clench and he looked away from her. His hand tightened on the small pot and he had to willingly relax it to keep from shattering it in his grip.

Maker's breath, he wasn't even fit to be in someone's home. She should've let the guard haul him to jail. It was no more than he deserved.

He didn't look at Maeve as she got up or as she came back with two buckets of steaming water. These she placed next to the fireplace. "I've had these by the baking oven, and they'll keep hot here." He didn't answer, remaining silent as she moved one of the chairs where he could reach and placed another change of clothes, some towels and a cake of soap on the other.

Long moments passed, the silence drawing out awkwardly. "If you need help standing," she offered, "I can—"

"I can do it."

"Are you sure? Your ankle—"

"I said I can do it!" he snapped, glaring up at her and then looking away again.

"All right. I'll, um, be in my room."

She practically fled, dashing into her bedroom and shutting the door. For a minute, Alistair simply remained where he was, realizing that one couldn't really die of embarrassment after all. Finally, he set the pot next to the other things she had laid out and then turned so his back was to the empty chair, reached back, and bracing his hands on the seat, lifted himself up to sit.

He hissed as pain lanced through his body, and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. When it abated to a dull throb, he grasped the hem of the shirt he wore and pulled it off. Hooking his thumbs in the waistband on his pants, he braced his weight on his good leg and rose up just enough to slip them off, kicking them off his ankles.

Reaching for the clay pot, Alistair tried not to think about the fact that he was sitting naked in a strange woman's house about to use an ointment to kill the assorted vermin he carried so they wouldn't infest her home.

That he had come to _this_…. The bitter laugh caught in his throat, turning into a strangled sob before he managed to crush it. There was a reason he tried not to spend so much time sober.

With two fingers, he reached into the pot and withdrew a thick dollop of the ointment. Working it between his hands, he rubbed it into his hair, down to and coating his scalp, grateful that Maeve had cut his hair and even more grateful that she hadn't just shaved it. Satisfied that his head was covered, he took some more of the oily ointment and applied it to the rest of his body—chest, armpits and groin.

He tried not to think about it as he worked. It was just a task, something that had to be done. He wasn't an exceptionally hairy man, but he applied it liberally, using all of the ointment. When he was done, he closed his eyes, thinking of a templar mental exercise he hadn't used in years to pass the time. The one that came to him took about ten minutes, and by the time he finished and reached for the first bucket of hot water, he felt calm, the humiliation fading in the light of some long overdue and long needed discipline and mental clarity.

The first bucket of water went to removing the bulk of the ointment, and Alistair didn't look too hard at the cloths. He didn't need to see the proof that she was right. The second bucket and soap cleaned the last remnants off his skin and he toweled himself dry. Once done, he slipped the clean set of clothes on.

Realizing he couldn't get up and knock on her door, he cleared his throat and called out, "I'm, uh, done!"


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the response, everyone! Your feedback is as delightful as ever and we're glad you like our OC and can sympathize with Alistair.

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**Chapter Three**

When she emerged from her room, Alistair refused to meet her eyes and the remnants of a dull flush lingered on his cheeks. Whatever had driven him to this point hadn't completely robbed him of pride, and she was careful not to say anything to cause him further embarrassment.

Over the course of the day, Maeve got to know Alistair a bit better. They chatted quietly while she boiled his bedding and clothes. Even with the bitterness anyone in his position would have—which she had been expecting—she was pleased to see the quality she had intuited from him became more evident. He was, despite his current condition, a gentleman.

He seemed to be nursing his side and she recalled she had seen bruising there. And he was reluctant to put any weight on his ankle, which she had him prop up on a pillow on the other chair at the table. To give him something to do that wouldn't aggravate his injuries, she put him to work peeling and slicing apples, which he did as if he knew his way around a kitchen, and she added that to her growing list of things she was learning about him without him speaking.

As long as he didn't have to move too quickly or listen to anything louder than the rain pouring on the roof, he seemed all right. She knew that wouldn't last long. Tomorrow at the latest he would need the other herbs she had picked up at the apothecary. And rather than use them now and let him sleep through his pain, she decided to hold off and see if he could make it through one more day.

She was unsure how long he would require medicating, but she knew people who were drinkers would go through a period of 'drying out' where they often had seizures and saw things that weren't there. She recalled her own father had been such a drinker. He would drink when he could intimidate her mother out of the small amount of money she made doing laundry and when he was sobering up, he would shake and yell and see things that weren't there. Until he got his next bottle.

If she could get him past those terrible first few days, he would be all right. After that, he would doubtless leave and continue whatever he was going to do, but he would be in far better shape than when he came to her. She could give him that much.

After hanging the bedding and his blanket near the fireplace to dry, she tidied the house—sweeping and mopping the floor, trying to keep her hands and mind occupied. She was aware Alistair was watching her, but strangely it didn't make her nervous. Robert had done much the same when he was alive. He had paused in his peeling, not able to focus on more than one thing at a time for the moment.

"You have a hard time just sitting, don't you?" he asked.

She smiled. "I've always been busy. I used to clean the house of a noble family when we lived in Ferelden. Then when my husband heard there was work to be had up here, we left. He was a mercenary soldier, but he eventually signed up with the city guard. That's how I met the man who helped us last night. I was hired by a merchant family here to clean, and I did that until…until shortly before he died."

"I see. How long have you been on your own, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Robert was killed about three years ago. After he died, I didn't feel much like working for others, and sold my pies and bread in the market here to make ends meet."

There was silence for a while as he resumed peeling fruit for her.

"I'm sorry," he said finally.

"It's all right. It was hard at first, but it's better now. I was very, very angry though, and I wanted to die with him."

Alistair frowned. "Yeah, sometimes grief can do that."

She expected him to say more, but he didn't. His bedding was dry by that evening and she helped him back to it. He was asleep within minutes of lying back down. She suspected he hadn't had much real sleep for years and his body was demanding rest to heal.

Smiling, she tucked his blankets around him a little tighter and went back to her baking.

The shaking began that night sometime after the rain had stopped, followed almost immediately by the sweating. Maeve had noticed his sleep growing more and more disturbed and began to heat tea for the herbs to dose him. By the time he was shouting and shaking, she had the medicine ready.

She helped him sit up and made him drink the herbal tea, though he protested at the taste. It worked quickly, and after he dozed back off, she decided to get some rest while he was sleeping.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days she tended him—giving him food, using the herbs to keep him dozing, wiping the sweat away and speaking quietly to him try to keep him grounded from the hallucinations. Unable to go to the market, some of her usual customers came by, but her baking business slacked off as she focused on tending him.

He begged her for a drink most of his few conscious hours, even as far as into the third day. She had hoped he would start feeling some relief from the urge by now.

"Give me a drink! This is torture! Black-hearted whore!"

"Come, Alistair, you need more medicine," she sighed, trying to get him back to sleep.

"No more of that horse piss!" he snarled. "Give me a damn drink! I never said I wanted to be sober!"

"You never said it, but, by the Maker, you need to be sober!" she snapped back. "You're going to die if you don't stop drinking!"

"Maybe I want to die! Maybe that's what I was trying to do when you decided to stick your nose in and 'save' me. Did you ever think of that, bitch?" he raged. "Just leave me alone and get me a damn drink. Just one drink, woman!"

He glared at her, but behind the eyes, behind the voice, she heard only the pain hidden by years in a bottle and now coming out as the alcohol was leaving his body.

Rubbing her forehead, she sighed. It was like her father all over again, though that miserable bastard had meant everything he said—sober or drunk. She was fairly sure that the man raving in her home right now wasn't the same as her father. This Alistair was completely at odds with the one who'd come to her defense, and she was going to believe that his nobler side was his true one.

She'd been afraid at first that she might have to restrain him. Her father had gotten violent whenever he started to dry out, and she'd had her fill of beatings while growing up. But despite his earlier warning about being violent, he hadn't raised a hand to her. Even in the middle of the worst of his rages, he hadn't lashed out physically.

That would've been a lot harder to forgive than a few names.

"All right, the tavern isn't far from here. If you drink this, I'll go get you a bottle. But if you don't shut up and drink it, I won't get you anything, and you can just lay here and swear all you want. No one will care."

"You're evil. All right, give me that shit."

She held him up while he drank it and then let him lay back on the pallet. Sighing as he grumbled himself into a restless, drugged sleep, she prayed this was the last time she had to sedate him. She was also getting a little tired of having this conversation.

The one good thing about the fact that he kept forgetting everything once he fell asleep was that he didn't remember that she kept lying to him about getting a drink. She had absolutely no intention of spending what little money she had on booze for him, not to mention it would undo all of the progress he'd made. Hopefully, when he woke next, he would be past this hurdle and be more reasonable.

She'd been shown a glimpse of the man he could be and she wanted to see him again.

* * *

Alistair's eyes opened. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and his mouth was dry. Moving slowly, for every inch of him felt as if he'd been beaten, he sat up and looked around, taking stock of the situation. The room was oddly familiar to him, like he should know it, but couldn't quite remember why.

He'd been cleaned up and bandaged. Again, this was oddly familiar. It wasn't a shock, exactly, but for the life of him he had no idea how he came to be here.

Closing his eyes he lay back down, his head throbbing. Wherever 'here' was, it seemed safe.

The sound of a door opening behind him and he looked up to see a woman emerge from a back room. She walked over to the fireplace, took a teapot and went outside. Moments later she reentered and set it on to boil. Then she moved to the table, cut a slice of cheese in half and sliced some bread, spreading it with butter.

The entire room smelled of bread. Bread and pies. He knew this place. Even drunk he had enjoyed the smells emerging from this home, and had spent many a night near it. It had reminded him of the kitchens in Redcliffe and his drink besotted, homesick mind had sought comfort in the familiar.

He tried again to sit up and the woman turned to look at him, her expression at first wary, then slipping to neutral. His memories might be muddled, but the scents were familiar and so was she. He recognized her face and the reddish-blonde of her hair pinned neatly to the nape of her neck. Standing up from the table she moved to him to help him up.

There was strength in her arms—this was no soft, weak woman he realized as she helped him to his feet. His ankle was tender, but from the feel of it was mending and his side ached but not as much as he had expected it would.

And his head felt clear despite his disorientation. His head hadn't felt this clear since….

Unbidden memories flooded him—her betrayal, his rage. Closing his mind to them, he focused on moving to the chair she pulled out for him and he sat beside her. He watched her deft hands slicing the bread for him and spreading some butter on it, passing him the last slice of cheese from a wheel.

The teapot whistling cut through his skull like a knife, sharp and unforgiving. In minutes, she had a steaming hot cup of tea for him though she also provided a mug of water.

"Feeling better?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Yes," he answered. "I know you, don't I? I remember…only a little. Please, help me. Who are you? Where am I?"

She nodded knowingly and murmured, "Thought so." She cleared her throat. "My name is Maeve Bannon and this is my home. I was coming back from the market when I was accosted by a petty by-blow and his bullies. You tried to help me."

He groaned weakly and closed his eyes, holding his head in his hands. Embarrassment reddened his cheeks and he could feel the heat coloring his ears. "I guess I acquitted myself pretty poorly then."

She laughed softly, but there was no mockery in her eyes when he looked at her. "You actually held your own pretty well considering you were drunk and outnumbered. They left when my friend, Jakon, came. He's one of the city guardsmen."

"I'll finish drinking and be out of your hair today, then. I'm sorry." His tone was apologetic.

She worried her bottom lip for a moment, a thoughtful frown on her brow. "You don't have to go," she said. "You've already been here a few days recuperating and it seems the drink has left your body. I'd like you to stay, if you're of a mind to. At least until you're back on your feet."

Drink. He usually needed a drink in the morning—it made getting through the rest of his day easier—but to his surprise he didn't feel that all important urgency he was used to. She said he'd been here for days. He didn't remember that. It felt as if he'd been sleeping a long, long time. He couldn't have been awake for much it. Perhaps that was why he didn't remember much about this room.

"Maeve," he repeated her name. That _was_ familiar. He should leave. He really, really should. But the thought of going back out took more strength than he had at the moment, and not even the embarrassment of accepting pity from a stranger could force him to go.

"I'll stay."

* * *

For those of you who are curious about what Alistair went through, let us direct you here: .org/wiki/Delerium_tremens

We realize his experience wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, but we'll call it one of the perks of being a Grey Warden.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

As the days passed, Maeve noticed Alistair growing restless. He chafed at being confined to a pallet or chair, and as soon as his healing injuries allowed, began moving and pacing in her house. At first she protested, worried that he would only aggravate his injuries. But each time she checked his bandages, she was shocked by how rapidly he seemed to be healing. The knot on his head disappeared quickly and his bad ankle held his weight with no signs of strain equally as fast. And his torso, which had once been a mass of bruises, held only faint shadows.

She commented on it once, and he merely shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess," he said.

Tending to him had caused Maeve to run through her meager supply of savings pretty quickly, and she knew she had to get back to selling her wares. Though she was reluctant to leave him alone in her home all day, she decided to risk it. At some point, she was either going to have to trust him that much, or ask him to leave.

Her trust was well placed.

The first few days, she returned half expecting to find Alistair and anything of value gone, but that didn't happen. He and all of her belongings were there just as she had left them.

Then there came a further surprise.

She opened her door one evening, expecting to see Alistair reading before the fire, greeting her with a tentative smile. And indeed, that did happen. But she also noticed immediately that her house was clean. Not just neatened up or straightened, but cleaned, right down to every single pan having been scrubbed and put away, the counters washed of any lingering trace of flour and the floors swept.

Gaping at the sight, she looked at Alistair. "Did you do this?" she asked, immediately feeling inane. Who else could have done it?

He nodded. "I've been going a little crazy with nothing to do. And I wanted to say thank you. You've done so much for me. This is nothing."

He hesitated. "This just reminds me of a place I used to call home. It was the least I could do before I…. It was the least I could do."

Smiling back at him, she nodded her thanks. She knew the words he'd left unfinished, and tried not to think at how disappointed they made her.

The pattern continued for a few more days, until one evening when she was walking home. Jakon had started escorting her home when she returned to work so she didn't have to worry about Brin. She thought at first he might be worried about Alistair, but the two of them had conversed one evening after she returned home and Jakon seemed satisfied she was in no immediate danger from him.

She pulled the cart behind her, noting Brin and his gang glaring at her, but not daring to get close with Jakon there. He was a big man, physically intimidating, and at first even Maeve had been a bit afraid of him. But Robert had vouched for him and she had come to know he had a good heart. His size was a comfort she drew on heavily now.

"So, how go things with your boarder?" Jakon asked.

"To be honest, I'm worried. Jakon, I think he's going to leave soon. He's healed a lot faster than I expected him to. He hasn't asked for anything more to drink, but he's very restless and I'm afraid without purpose he's just going to find himself back in the same situation he was in before."

"There's nothing you can do about that, Maeve. It's his choice. You can't save the world."

"I'm not trying to save the world. I'm trying to help one man. It seems unfair that he might just end up back where he started."

"What more can you do?" Jakon spread his hands. "You've already given him more than anyone else here would. And with no trade or training, he hasn't got many options."

"But he does have training! Even drunk he knew how to fight—he was just outnumbered and out of practice. He's strong, stronger than he looks and he has lots of old scars. He's seen real battle and has a Fereldan accent. I think he must've been a mercenary once. Maybe one who fell on hard times after the civil war and the Blight were done.

"I was thinking…what about the guard? He could do well there."

"Oh, Maeve," Jakon sighed. "You have no idea what you're asking."

"I'm hardly asking that much. He's decent and can fight. Isn't that what the guard looks for?"

Jakon cursed softly under his breath, slowing his steps and speaking quietly. "It's not just about that. Everyone knows him as a drunk. Most of the guard has dragged him to jail at least once. Barely two weeks of sobriety hasn't changed how people see him.

"As for his fighting abilities…. That one brawl with Brin's gang is hardly a glowing recommendation. Not to mention that he isn't physically capable of joining the guard right now, even if it did turn out that he has real skills."

"So what can I do? I just can't let him go back to what he was before. It's not right!"

Rubbing his forehead, Jakon thought. "You're determined to save him, aren't you?" She nodded. "For the Maker's sake, why? You owe him nothing. In fact, he owes you—more than he can ever possibly repay, truth be told."

"I don't know really. It just…feels right."

With a heavy sigh, Jakon rubbed his eyes. "I don't believe I'm saying this. All right, listen. If you can keep him sober for a few months, and if he can get himself back into shape, I'll see what I can do. The guard always needs good men, and if your intuition is right, he could do well there. But it won't be easy, Maeve. He's going to have to do a whole lot to prove himself.

"And please don't take this the wrong way, because I love you like a sister, but he can't stay with you. Robert was well-liked and most of the men will take poorly to the thought that you're warming his bed. Or if they think he's taking advantage of you."

"Jakon!"

He held up his hands. "It's true, Maeve. He's got to do some of this on his own if he's ever going to earn any respect. And if he's the man you think he is, he should want to do it."

Despite their slow steps, they were almost at Maeve's house. She looked up at her friend. "Thank you, Jakon. I'll figure something out."

"Just…don't get your hopes up too high, all right? Men like Alistair…. Let's just say it's a lot harder for most to do what you're asking than to fall back into the bottle. I don't want you hurt."

Impulsively, she reached out and hugged him. "I know, Jakon. I'll be careful, I promise. I just want to give a good man a chance."

He hugged her back. "Little fool," he muttered. "Night, Maeve. You know where I am if you need me."

* * *

Maeve packed up a lunch for Alistair. Today he'd be going out to do some repairs around Mrs. Brook's house. For the last few weeks since he finished healing, he'd been doing odd jobs, mainly day labor work. Most of his work came from the chanter's board in front of the chantry in town, since the chanters paid well for such services and were among the few willing to trust him with more important work.

They'd fallen into a routine once he recovered and began to get out and do more. When he first began bringing coin home, he'd insisted that she take it as repayment for the wages she'd spent and lost taking care of him. After that, he divided his earnings, spending some on food and necessities for them and putting the rest aside for later to find his own place. It almost seemed as if the man he had been was already forgotten.

The time for him to leave was drawing near. She saw it in his face last night as he sat and counted out the coins he'd been saving. It came as a surprise that the thought of him leaving left a huge hole in her heart. She hadn't realized how lonely she'd been without Robert, and Alistair had proved to be wonderful company. It felt good to come home to someone, to have someone to take care of.

But truth be told, he no longer needed her to take care of him. Since he began work, his strength had more than returned. The hollowness had left his cheeks and the darkness faded from around his eyes. And the few times she'd caught him without a shirt, she'd seen the same progress with his body—the slight traces of fat almost melting off and the adding of heavy muscle. Added to that was a mental clarity she'd never seen from him. It was clear that it was time for him to find his own way in the world again. That's what she had wanted for him all along, but it still hurt to think the end was almost there.

Her biggest fear was that he would fall into old pain and old habits when he moved on. It hadn't escaped her attention those times he would sit quietly and seem to be listening to a voice from his past only he could hear. When such dark moods fell on him, she avoided speaking until his mood improved. And she'd been awakened more than once by the sound of him caught in a nightmare.

If only she could keep him close, but still offer him his freedom.

It was a wedding in town that gave her an idea.

Lukas, one of the local farmhands, married Delia, a young seamstress and they purchased one of the empty homes in town. Lukas had lived with an older widow named Hilda Miller as a boarder in her home. Of course, when he moved in with his young wife that left Hilda lacking one boarder. It would be perfect for Alistair—small, private and cheap. The problem was she knew the woman only took in people she knew, or who had references from people she knew.

"Have a good day, Alistair," she said as he picked up his lunch, smiling as he thanked her and left.

She left for market a little later than usual, carefully packing a strawberry rhubarb pie on top. Hilda had a known weakness for them and while the two women were friendly, Maeve had a feeling she was going to need every advantage she could find. The older woman answered the knock on her door promptly. She exclaimed over the pie, thanking Maeve profusely and ushering her in with a smile.

Thus, she found herself sitting in Hilda's clean kitchen, eating a piece of pie with the older woman and relaxing with a cup of tea. For awhile, they chatted amiably about the wedding and other news from around town. Hilda served them both seconds of the pie and poured another cup of tea. Cradling the cup in her hands, Maeve looked at the woman.

"Hilda, I've got a favor to ask of you," she began.

"If it's about the drunk, forget it. He can't have the room."

Apparently, news traveled fast.

"I knew what you were up to the minute you pulled out this pie. I've been around too long not to recognize a bribe when I see one. We've been friends for a long time Maeve, but I don't trust someone who just spent several years in his cups. How do I know he won't get drunk and tear up the house or assault me or my boarders?"

"I'll vouch for him," Maeve said with utter conviction. "He hasn't had anything to drink in weeks. And even when he was drying out and in a lot of pain, he never hit me, was never destructive. I don't think it's in him to be like that. He's a gentleman, Hilda."

Hilda snorted. "And I think you got lucky. You're a damned fool, taking a chance like that, girl. Always thought you had better sense than that."

Maeve reached across the table to clasp the older woman's hands in her own. "Please, Hilda, I know this is a lot to ask, but I wouldn't ask it if I thought there was the slightest chance something would happen."

Pursing her lips, Hilda gave her a long, hard look. Finally she sighed. "I'm doing this against my better judgment, but as you seem so sure, I'll talk to him." At her hopeful expression Hilda held up a hand. "I just promise to talk to him, nothing else."

"Thank you, Hilda."

"Don't thank me just yet. One pie isn't nearly enough to make me take a risk like this. Times are tough right now, and I could use some extra help feeding my boarders." She raised an eyebrow in expectation.

Maeve winced inwardly. Hilda was no fool, and while she'd never ask for more than Maeve could give, she would exact her price.

"Fresh bread every day?" Maeve offered.

"And a pie every other day. Something hearty. And this is whether or not I rent to him, mind you."

"For how long? I can't do that forever, Hilda."

"Don't expect you to, girl. Let's say…a month. So do we have a deal or not?"

Accepting that this was the price of doing business, Maeve nodded. "We have a deal."

"Done then. And I wouldn't take amiss to another one of these pies tomorrow."

Maeve laughed and hugged Hilda, the older woman gruffly trying to disentangle herself from the younger.

"I just ask one thing, Hilda," said Maeve.

"One? Seems to me you've already asked and gotten what you came here for."

"Almost. I need him to think this is his idea—that he got the room on his own merits, not that I got it for him."

"I like how you just assume I'll rent to him. And you needn't worry about that. You haven't gotten him the room," Hilda huffed. "I only agreed to talk to him, and your food is the price you paid for that. If he gets the room, it'll be because I think I can trust him—to both behave and pay the rent."

"All the same, when he comes, I want you not to let on that I spoke to you, aside from saying that he can use me for a reference. I think it's really important for him."

"I can do that. Nothing wrong with letting a man have a little pride." She winked at Maeve. "But just a little, mind you. Too much and they start getting too big for their britches."

Maeve had a sudden image from the night she brought Alistair home and got him cleaned up. She coughed, hastily clearing her throat and taking a sip of tea. "All right, we're agreed then," she said quickly. "I'll see if I can't get him here sometime in the next few days."

Hilda cast a curious glance at her, but shrugged and turned back to her pie. Maeve followed suit, concentrating on her own slice so that the older woman couldn't see her burning cheeks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Alistair was feeling pretty good as he walked home. For the first time in well over six years, he felt good about his life. He was sober, and even if he was still sometimes troubled by black moods or nightmares, he didn't seek refuge in the bottle.

The chanters paid well for jobs and it was relatively easy to find day work he could do for a few coins. These days, he had hard coin to his name that he'd earned honestly and was doing work that he was proud of. He had clean clothes and a roof over his head. Life was actually worth living again.

Yet, he couldn't continue accepting Maeve's charity. The last time he'd spoken to Jakon, the older man had been polite, but Alistair could hear the disapproval in his voice. He knew there was nothing between Alistair and Maeve—save for a budding friendship—but still Jakon had left no doubts as to what he thought of Alistair's continuing to live with Maeve. Nor what effect the situation would have on her reputation.

As much as he enjoyed her company, pride and honor dictated he stand for himself now.

He had some money saved up. With that, he'd be able to pay for rent on a room, but he really didn't want to go to the inn. Not only were the rooms more expensive there, but he didn't want to risk the temptation of being surrounded by all that alcohol. Nor could he afford the rental on even a tiny house, not yet anyway. He would broach the topic with Maeve and see if she had any ideas.

Even before he neared her home, the smells of fresh bread baking reached him. As a boy he had often hung out near the Redcliffe kitchens in the hopes that the soft-hearted cook, Gertie, would give him a muffin or one of the small meat pies she baked. Aside from Teagan's occasional visits and playing with the mabari puppies, those were the best memories he had of Redcliffe. Maeve's house always reminded him of the best parts of his childhood.

Pausing on the step, he scraped the mud off his boots and then knocked on her door.

After a moment, Maeve answered it with a large smile. Her hands were dusty with flour and there was the cutest smudge of it on her cheek where she had brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Alistair couldn't help responding to her smile with a grin of his own before she stepped back and let him enter.

Hanging the small bag he carried lunch in on its hook by the door, he took a huge whiff of the room's smells, and new scents making his mouth water. Maeve had actually been baking a pullet as well as her usual wares. There was a bowl of potatoes—peeled and mashed—on the table and carrots from the small garden outside. Fresh bread and butter lay next to them, as well a bowl of thick gravy. Alistair grinned.

He could look for a place later. After dinner was soon enough!

After washing up and diving into the meal with gusto, he ate like he hadn't eaten in years. Until tonight, dinners—while filling—had mostly consisted of stews or goods she hadn't sold that day, or sometimes bread and cheese. And while he loved her baking, the fresh meat and vegetables was a welcome bit of unexpected variety.

"What's the occasion—for the chicken, I mean?" he asked.

"No special occasion. Once in a while I go to the butcher's when I have a little extra money and get a small bird to cook. I've been doing pretty well with my baking, and with Jakon walking me home, I've been able to keep all of it. Plus you've been contributing."

"I didn't realize a few coins here and there helped that much."

"They really have gone a long way, but a lot of what I do is in trade. For the butcher, I not only can give coin, but breads, pies, whatever he wants me to make."

For a bit there was silence as they ate and Alistair became aware Maeve was staring at him. He paused uncomfortably and grinned shyly at her.

"I'm sorry. It's just really good."

"It's not that—well not _just _that. I just wanted to tell you I really enjoy your company, Alistair."

And with those words, there it was. Alistair sat, poking his fork at the potatoes and moving them around his plate.

"I've really enjoyed being here with you, too, Maeve." He really had. There was another reason for needing to find his own place.

"But…"

He swallowed. This was harder than he thought it would be. "But I can't keep accepting your charity. I'm better now, and I need to…go."

Maeve nodded silently.

"Do you have a place to go to?" she asked.

"I thought maybe I could get a room at the inn, at least temporarily, until I can find something else."

"How much room do you need?" she asked. "It's just you, and you don't have many possessions."

"Not a lot," he admitted.

"Then I have an idea. There's a widow who lives nearby, Hilda Miller, who I do business with. She has a large home her husband left her and she rents out the extra rooms to boarders. I'm pretty sure one of her tenants moved out recently, and I don't think she's rented it out to anyone else since then."

He frowned. This would solve the huge problem of where to go, but would this widow trust him enough to rent a room to him? He knew very well what most people thought of him. "Do you think she would really rent me a room?"

Maeve shrugged. "It never hurts to ask. She's really a nice old lady once you get past that crusty outer shell, and she was very kind to me after Robert died. I think if you can show her that you're trustworthy, she might let you stay."

Setting his fork and knife on the plate, he pushed it away and rested his arms on the table. "I don't know how I'm going to prove that to her, but it's an idea anyway."

"We can go over later and talk with her, if you want. We can even sit and chat over a piece of pie so she can get to know you."

"All right," he agreed. "But let me do the talking, Maeve. You've already done so much for me. I need to do this on my own."

Maeve smiled and nodded.

* * *

They finished eating and did the dishes, Maeve washing and Alistair drying. Maeve tucked another strawberry rhubarb pie into a basket for Hilda and walked with Alistair to the widow's home. Alistair walked quickly and in silence. She noted the signs of nervousness and let him work through it on his own.

Hilda answered the knock on her door promptly and took the basket from Maeve with a knowing gleam in her eyes. When Alistair stepped in, however, the older woman took a half step back. Living with him, Maeve had forgotten just how _big_ Alistair was. Though she knew he wasn't trying to, he loomed over the smaller woman.

Maeve hastened to get him sitting, so that Hilda would feel more secure, and tried to get some light conversation going, but neither Hilda nor Alistair took the bait.

"Maeve," Alistair said, turning to her. "Could I speak to Mrs. Miller alone? Please?"

She nodded, and rose. "I'll wait outside. It's a nice night. Just let me know when you're done." The silence held until she closed the door behind her. Leaning against the side of the house, she waited.

Time seemed to drag and Maeve paced back and forth, gnawing on a fingernail. She shouldn't be this anxious. Whether or not Hilda rented to Alistair, she tried to keep telling herself that he would be all right now. If not in Hilda's home, then he'd find another place to rent. Maybe not as cheap, or as nice, but if he could keep steady work, then he'd be able to afford it.

Finally, the door opened and she heard the murmur of voices. Alistair came out holding Maeve's basket—now empty—and walked toward her.

"Well?" she asked when he said nothing. He looked at her seriously and Maeve felt her heart sink. Oh, no. This would be such a setback for him after he'd come so far.

Then he smiled shyly at her, mirth twinkling in his eyes. "She said yes."

"You!" She punched him lightly on the arm. "Maker, Alistair, don't do that! I was so worried."

"Sorry, couldn't resist." He kept grinning for a moment before he sobered. "Mrs. Miller said you spoke to her and that you would vouch for me."

"I did."

"Thank you. I mean it, thank you. I don't think she would have ever said yes otherwise."

"You did all the hard work. With Hilda, if you don't prove yourself on your own, no amount of good words can change her mind. So if she said yes, it's because _you_ convinced her."

"I still say your support made all the difference. Anyway, she says I can move in whenever. I don't have much, but as it's late, I said I'd come tomorrow. If that's all right with you."

"That's fine, Alistair. Now let's go home."

The next morning, Maeve packed Alistair's belongings in a small pack for him. She'd given him the rest of Robert's clothing—over his protests—and a few sundry items he would need. Hefting the pack, she walked into the main room where Alistair was folding the last of the blankets from the pallet he'd used. Placing them on a chair, he took the pack from her.

Maeve handed it over, sad that the life of one man could fit into a bundle so small. But it was far more than he'd had several weeks ago, and he seemed unbothered by it.

She tried not to think about how little she was looking forward to his imminent departure. She'd gotten used to having someone else with her again, and she already felt the loss of the companionship they'd shared. But the situation was unfair to Alistair. It wasn't right to leave him relying on her good graces.

And she knew from experience that a bed was profoundly more comfortable than sleeping on the floor.

He opened the door and she stepped out behind him, falling into step beside him. They hadn't discussed her coming with him, and he didn't say anything, merely gave her a curious look.

Hilda was waiting for them. She ushered them in, showing Alistair to the room that would be his. It was small, holding only a single width bed, a small table, a trunk and a washstand. He placed his pack on the bed and looked around.

"Well…." said Alistair. "I guess…I guess this is goodbye."

"I guess it is."

They stood awkwardly in the silence and then both spoke at the same time.

"I just want—"

"Listen, if you—"

They both smiled and laughed, and Maeve gestured at Alistair. "You first."

"I just wanted to say thank you again. I can't say it enough, Maeve. Truly, thank you. There's no way for me to repay what you've done for me."

"I didn't do that much. I just gave you a chance."

"No, you did more than that," he said seriously, intently. "You'll never know how much I owe you for this—you gave me my life back."

Maeve blushed. "Really, you give me too much credit, but you're welcome."

He nodded. "And you were saying?"

She coughed and cleared her throat. "I was just going to say that I know Hilda provides meals for her boarders, but…you're more than welcome at my home. Don't be a stranger, all right?"

He grinned. "I'll definitely keep that in mind. But I've taken enough of your time. You need to get to work and so do I."

Silence again.

"So…I guess this is it."

"I guess it is," she agreed.

Turning to the doorway, Maeve only took a step before she felt Alistair's hand on her shoulder, spinning her back around. He caught her in a tight hug, squeezing hard enough to leave her breathless. After a stunned moment, she returned the embrace, smiling over his shoulder.

He released her almost reluctantly and stepped back. "Bye, Maeve."

"Bye, Alistair."

* * *

Despite her hopes, a week passed with no word from Alistair. She saw him sometimes in the market, usually carrying out some sort of work. He always gave her a wave or a quick word, but other than that, he stayed away.

She cursed herself for getting so attached. Robert always said that was one of her greatest faults—seeing bonds and connections where none existed. Apparently, she'd done it again with Alistair. After saying goodbye in his room, she'd thought for sure he would visit again, but no such luck.

Sitting curled up in a chair before the fire, she picked glumly at her dinner. She _shouldn't_ be this disappointed. She hardly knew the man. Obviously, after thanking her, he had no intention of coming back. He had his own life to live now, after all. There was a knock at the door and she set her plate down.

Pulling open the door, she said curtly, "What do you—"

Alistair stood there, looking slightly apprehensive. When she said nothing more, he shifted from foot to foot. "I was, uh, wondering if the invitation for dinner was still open."

Maeve grinned, realizing she probably looked like an idiot. Stepping back to let him in, she said, "Always."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Over the next several months, Maeve and Alistair settled into a tentative pattern. Alistair would show up for dinner once a week at first and then gradually came by more and more frequently. He insisted on helping pay for the meals, but she refused. It didn't feel right to accept money from him when she enjoyed having him over. He wasn't pleased, and she was half-afraid his pride would stop him from coming.

Instead, what happened was when she would go to a vendor or seller she would find that money had been left to cover her order. No amount of arguing with these merchants would get them to accept double payment.

Alistair feigned innocence when she confronted him and eventually she gave up. If he wanted to pay for things, that was fine by her. It made him happy and who was she to deny him that?

She also kept an ear out for rumors. She knew what had been said about him as a drunk, and what had been said about her when he was living with her. Her own reputation was solid enough to have weathered that without lasting repercussions, but Alistair had years of poor behavior to make up for. While she didn't like rumors and gossip, they often determined how others treated you.

To her delight, it seemed like he was making headway. There was still a great deal of suspicion and doubt, but some were willing to vouch for him, especially those whom he'd worked for. The chanters were especially fond of him. The image of a hard-working, reliable man was replacing the drunk, and the confidence that gave him showed in his posture and developing openness, the laughter and joking that made up much of their interaction now.

Interaction that was growing beyond friendship.

However, she could tell though that he wasn't entirely happy with his life, and she remembered her long ago conversation with Jakon. Alistair had continued to fill out and regain muscle and she wondered if it wasn't time to broach the subject with him.

She chose to bring it up after a particularly filling meal—his appetite astounded her, not even Robert or Jakon had ever matched the amount of food Alistair could consume.

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Were you once a fighter?"

He went very still and was silent for a long time. Maeve held her breath, wondering if she'd gone someplace she shouldn't have.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not trying to pry!" she hastily assured him. "It's just that, well, I've seen your scars. You don't get those without being involved in battle somehow."

He looked away. "Yes, I used to be."

"Would you like to do it again?"

His gaze slid back over to meet hers. "What exactly are you asking me, Maeve?"

"I talked to Jakon awhile back, about finding you better work—in the city guard. He said he would test you when you were strong enough. I think you're ready. If you want to try."

Alistair abruptly pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He paced back and forth, anxiously rubbing his face and jaw. "You don't know what you're asking, Maeve."

"I know I don't. I don't know what happened to you, Alistair. I hoped you would tell me someday, but I'm not going to push."

He shook his head. "It's better that you don't know. I want you to like me for who I am now, and if you knew…."

"It can't be that bad. I've seen the kind of man you are, Alistair, and I refuse to believe that anything in your past could be so terrible."

A hollow, bitter laugh greeted those words. "I don't deserve faith like that, Maeve. Believe me, I don't." He waved his hands. "Enough. That's buried in the past. I need…. I need to go."

Maeve stood quickly, heart pounding in her chest. Oh, Maker, she hoped she hadn't pushed him away for good. She liked him, really liked him, more than she should. And losing him now, like this, would be unbearable.

She reached out to catch his arm. "Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

His hand covered hers. "Don't be sorry. This is all me. You're just trying to help, and I appreciate it. But…. Listen, no promises, but I'll think about it, all right?"

"All right." She slipped her fingers from under his as he left. In silence she began clearing the remains of dinner, praying she hadn't just done something incredibly stupid.

* * *

Two days passed before Maeve saw Alistair again. She had been worried at his complete absence, but when he showed up at her door, he seemed calm and at peace. Her tentative smile was answered with one of his and all the tension she's been carrying drained away.

"You said Jakon would be willing to test me?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Do you know the next time he's on duty?"

"He should be working now. Did you want to go down and see?"

"Yes," he said decisively. "Let's do this now before I lose my nerve."

She led him down to the guard house. Well, more like she gave directions and then almost had to jog to keep up with his determined stride. When they reached the entrance they were challenged by two bored looking guardsmen.

"What do you want?" one of them yawned.

"Is Jakon on duty today?" Maeve asked. "And if so, is he in right now?"

"I think so. Go check if Jakon's inside," he addressed a younger guard nearby.

"Bah, why do I always have to go?"

"Because I said so!"

Despite his protests, the other guardsman went inside the guardhouse and reappeared with Jakon shortly.

"Maeve, Alistair. Can I help you?"

"We're here about that offer you made awhile back. Alistair would like to take you up on it." Jakon looked at Alistair with a guarded expression, doing a quick visual assessment.

"Right, come with me please," Jakon said and showed them through the guardhouse to a small training yard in the back.

Maeve saw five stout wooden poles, with maybe two yards space between them. The poles were riddled with marks from cuts by various blunt implements and Maeve assumed they were used as targets for weapon practice.

"Now, Alistair, pick a practice sword there and line up in front of the nearest post," Jakon instructed him.

Alistair went to the weapons rack, took a sword and swung it a few times before replacing it in the weapons rack and trying a slightly bigger sword instead. Jakon nodded as Alistair made a few sweeps and stepped up to the post, apparently satisfied with the balance of the sword.

"Good," Jakon continued and it seemed to Maeve that he was suddenly watching Alistair with more interest than before. "Now let me see a few practice blows on the post."

Alistair crouched a little and raised the sword until it rested almost behind his ear then he rotated his hips a few times before suddenly swinging the sword so fast Maeve hardly could see it before it landed with a resounding thud on the post.

"Damn," Jakon mumbled to himself.

"Wasn't it good?" Maeve asked anxiously.

"Are you kidding me? That man knows how to use a sword. See how he used his whole body to make a blow—hips, shoulder, arm and wrist." He raised his voice. "Can you show me a few varied blows now? Hit the post high and low, left and right."

Alistair nodded and raised the sword again. This time he threw a series of blows at the post with fluid motions, the sword just a metallic blur to Maeve.

"Good, that's enough. I don't know how much experience you have with the kind of gutter fights we have here, but you obviously know how to use a sword. Now I want to see how you do against a moving target."

Jakon pulled a blunted practice blade of his own as several of the guards, realizing who this was applying for a position, gathered around to point and laugh. Maeve frowned, afraid he would be distracted, but Alistair's attention was focused on his opponent, not on a few catcalls and jeers.

Both combatants selected shields and squared off against each other. Jakon started with a strike blocked by Alistair's shield. Then for a few rounds both men traded blows, each gauging the other's strength.

At first Alistair's movements were unsure and hesitant, and Jakon pressed the advantage. The derision from the other guards became louder. But when the fight became earnest, it quickly became apparent that Alistair was the more experienced of the two. It may have been some time since he'd fought, but Maeve could see the moment old training kicked in and his body responded with ingrained reflexes no amount of time or drink could eliminate. His stance was different, his movements sure and smooth.

Very quickly he had Jakon on the defensive, to the astonishment of everyone assembled. When Alistair's blow knocked his shield out of Jakon's grip, the older man was caught off guard and quickly overmatched. He landed in the dust of the now silent yard. When the tip of Alistair's sword touched his throat, he released his own weapon.

"Hold, hold, I yield!" He chuckled good-naturedly as Alistair offered his hand to assist him up. "That's good enough for me."

He dusted himself off, retrieving his weapons as Alistair racked his. "The position's yours if you want it."

"I do."

"Good. Then you start the day after tomorrow."

* * *

Once they were away from the guard house, Maeve threw herself at Alistair, hugging him and laughing. "You did it!"

With his own infectious laugh, he wrapped his arms around her and swung her in circles. She gasped and tightened her arms around his neck. Dizzy and elated, she kept holding on until he set her back down on her feet. But he didn't let go. Neither did she.

Looking up into his warm, hazel eyes, she was suddenly very aware of the muscles she could feel through his shirt, the press of her body against his—the warm weight of his hands on her back holding her close and the way her breasts were flattened against the hard planes of his chest.

There was a tingly, fluttery feeling in her stomach as he looked down at her and she knew he was just as aware of their positions. She was sure he was going to kiss her and her breath caught in anticipation.

But that guarded expression she had seen too often on his face reappeared. He took a deep breath and with a visible effort, released her and stepped back.

Maeve wanted to howl in frustration, and it wasn't just for her own sense of loss. Would he never be free of whatever demons followed him? Would they always be there, ready to snatch away any chance at happiness? It wasn't fair, not when it appeared that was the only thing holding him back.

"It appears I owe you yet again."

"Oh, don't even start with me." She poked him in the chest. "At this point, I think we're past owing one another, don't you?"

"Fair enough." A sweep of a hand up the street to gesture them back home. "Thank you, though."

"You!" Laughing, she punched him lightly on the arm. "What did I just say?"

"Ow! Hey! I bruise easily," he complained, rubbing the injured limb with an expression of mock sadness.

"Oh, poor baby," she teased. "Want me to kiss it better?"

The words slipped out and she bit her lip. To her surprise, Alistair blushed.

"I, ah, as much as I might _like_ that, I think perhaps I should just get you home."

"Right, good idea."

Walking back in silence, they maintained a careful distance. As Maeve opened her door, a sudden thought occurred to her. "Alistair? Do you have a few minutes? There's something I want to do."

"Sure. What is it?"

"Just have a seat. I'll be out in a moment." Leaving him to make himself comfortable, she went into her bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Maeve sighed. Opening the trunk at the foot of her bed that contained the few things she had been unable to part with after her husband's death four years ago, she removed his most prized possession—an excellent and well maintained sword.

The scabbard was made of dark leather and she gripped the hilt, pulling it out carefully. Since his death she'd kept it and cared for it. It had been his most prized possession and he had wanted to give it to their son when he came of age.

She bit her bottom lip recalling the babe born not long after she had lost Robert. A son. But their little one hadn't survived the birth.

After that she hadn't been able to part with it—it had been something her husband treasured and her last real link to him. It felt wrong to just sell it, though there were times she could have used the money.

She looked it over. It was well oiled and the blade shimmered in the low light. She'd also kept it sharp. It was a fine blade and would serve a worthy owner well.

Her mind kept going back to the scene in the practice yard—the guards' teasing and digs, Alistair moving a bit awkwardly at first as Jakon tested his resolve and skill. When his body remembered his training, he moved with more confidence. He had almost seemed like a completely different man as she had watched him press his advantage on Jakon and overcome him.

The guards had been a lot more enthusiastic about him joining them then.

A small, sad smile played on her lips. He would be provided a blade and armor from the armory, but she knew this blade was of better quality and that he would use it well. Moreover, he was the first man she had met worthy of the gift. Well, second. Jakon had refused it, saying she should keep it or sell it as she saw fit.

She slipped the blade back into the scabbard and held it to her chest. It was time to say goodbye. Putting the sword behind her back, she opened the door and stepped back into the main room.

Alistair hadn't sat down. He stood there, tall and golden, and when he saw her holding something behind her back, he looked at her curiously and grinned.

"What do you have there? A surprise? I like surprises." The grin never left his face.

"Something…you can use."

She giggled when he reached to try and grab it, and tried to back away, but ended up against the kitchen table. With a small sigh, she pulled it from behind her back and held it out to him.

"Oh, Maeve, this is…."

He took the blade from her and slid it from its sheath. Hefting the handle expertly he backed away, gave it a swing and then a few more, checking the balance and weight. Her memories supplied the image of Robert doing the exact same thing, but this time the slight ache that accompanied thoughts of her late husband was gone.

Satisfied, he put the blade back into its scabbard and tried to give it back, but she shook her head, holding her hands behind her back. Then it was his turn to shake his head.

"No, Maeve, this is a very valuable blade. You should sell it, get yourself something you can use, not waste it on me."

"It's not a waste. This was my husband's. I was going to give it to our son, but he…he was stillborn. I have no one else to give it to, and I _can't_ sell it. Please, I think he would want you to have it."

He pulled it back toward him, his expression reluctant.

"Jakon says you're very good. He's an experienced soldier, so if he vouches for you I know you'll be all right. But a sword like that will help."

"Maeve, I…." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "I like you."

"I like you, too."

"I don't mean as just a friend."

"I know."

He appeared indecisive for a moment, then he sighed and nodded as if he had come to some conclusion.

"I need to be honest here, no matter what the cost. If I've any hope of something with you, then it's time I told you, Maeve—who and what I am."

* * *

Alistair sat Maeve down at her table, laid the blade down upon it and started to sit before changing his mind. Sitting was too still. He had no idea how she was going to react to this and he needed the freedom to move to help him get this out. After pacing back and forth for a minute, he turned to face her.

"You know that I'm from Ferelden and that I used to be a fighter." She nodded. "I had training growing up—in the Chantry, actually."

"The Chantry? But the only people they train in arms are…."

"Templars, yes."

"You're a templar?" she asked incredulously. Oh, joy. If that was so hard to believe, she was just going to _love_ the rest of this.

"Not quite a templar. I…left before I took my final vows. Anyway, I did get some training there, but I learned most of my skills during the Blight."

Her face softened in compassion. "I think that's true for a lot of people. I know Robert had a lot of work during that time, with the civil war and everything. It seemed like everyone was just fighting for survival."

He shook his head. "No, that's not what I mean. I learned most of my skills _fighting the Blight_. I was involved in the civil war, sort of, but that's not where most of my attention was focused."

"You fought darkspawn? Oh, Alistair. That must have been terrible. Robert told stories about when they had no choice but to do that, and it sounded ghastly. And you did it willingly? That's very brave." She smiled at him. "And next you'll be telling me you're a Grey Warden, right?"

Saying nothing, he simply met her gaze steadily. He had no idea when she had left Ferelden or how much she knew about occurred toward the end. It might be easier to let her piece things together as much as she could and then fill in the rest.

The smile slowly faltered and her eyes widened as realization dawned. "You're…you're _really_ a Grey Warden?"

"Yes." When she just continued to stare, he looked away from her. "That's how I got out of the Chantry. Duncan, the Warden-Commander, recruited me."

Maeve ran her hands through her hair. "That's…that's incredible. I had no idea."

"You had no reason to." Alistair shrugged. "It's not like you ever saw anything from me that would give that impression."

She opened her mouth to answer and then closed it, nodding ruefully. "So how did you end up here? If you're a Warden, shouldn't you be with them?"

"I…left."

"You left? I didn't know you could do that. And that's nothing to be ashamed of, unless…." She paused and frowned in thought. "Wait, did you leave _during_ the Blight?"

She looked at him aghast and Alistair felt the same self-recriminations he had when he first fully realized what he'd done—the same feelings that drove him to the bottle in the first place. His hands twitched. A drink would help now—numb him a bit so he could finish this story. Surely one drink couldn't—

A hand touched his arm.

He looked back at Maeve as she tugged him toward the seat next to her, pulling him down. "Try starting from the beginning," she said softly. "Take your time."

Drawing a deep breath, he nodded and tried to settle. "Duncan recruited me. I was with the Wardens for about six months. I loved it. I finally had a place to belong, where people accepted me and I didn't have to worry about…anything else."

"And then?" prompted Maeve when he fell silent.

"And then Ostagar happened."

Her hand covered his where it rested on the arm of the chair. "You were there?"

"I was."

"I'm so sorry, Alistair. We were still in Ferelden then and we heard about that."

"It was a massacre," he said quietly. "Solona and I were the only Wardens to survive."

"Solona?" she asked. "Solona Amell?"

"Yes."

Her brow furrowed as she thought. "I heard about that. The Wardens were blamed for King Cailan's death and—"

"We didn't!" he burst out savagely. "Loghain betrayed us, betrayed Cailan! The bastard left all those people to be slaughtered and then had the gall to blame it on _us_!"

Alistair jerked his hand from beneath her, curling it into a fist as he struggled to control the surge of anger. Maeve touched his arm tentatively, rubbing gently.

"I remember that. I never believed it. It made no sense." She paused. "But, Alistair, I don't understand. Loghain ended the Blight. We left before then, but everyone knows that. If you felt that strongly about him, how did that happen?"

"Because she chose _him_ over me." It hurt to say that out loud, to verbally admit the choice that the woman he'd loved had made. "After everything we'd been through, after everything we'd done, it didn't matter what we meant to each other—what I thought we'd meant to each other. She chose him."

Maeve's hand continued stroking his arm and the sense of anticipation was heavy in the room.

"This was at the Landsmeet?"

"Yes. What should have been a scene of justice instead became a mockery of everything I've loved."

"But, Alistair, from what I remember hearing about the Landsmeet, the only two Wardens who were there were Solona Amell and the Warden being put forward…as a contender…for the…throne…."

Her voice trailed off and he chanced a quick look at her. Maeve's eyes were absolutely huge, her eyebrows almost up to her hairline. She looked at him intently, gray eyes flicking back and forth, almost like she was seeing him for the first time.

She stood up abruptly.

"Maeve!" He reached for her, wanting her to understand what he was trying to say, what he couldn't figure out how to say.

Holding up a hand, she said, "Wait. Wait right here a minute." Dashing into her room, she didn't bother closing the door. Alistair sat, listening to the sounds of her rummaging through something.

When she came back out, she was holding something small in her hands. As she sat down, he could see the glint of gold from two coins. With a slightly shaking hand, she reached out and gently grasped his chin, turning his head to the side so she could see him in profile. He watched from the corner of his eyes as compared his image to those stamped on the coins.

Finally, she sagged back in her seat, lowering her hands to rest limply on her thighs. "Oh holy Maker," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "Alistair, you're a _prince_!"

Andraste, no! This was exactly what he didn't want to happen. She was wrong, so wrong, and he had to make her see that.

"No." He reached out, grabbed her hands in his, forcing her to look at him. "No, Maeve, I'm not. I'm not! For my entire life, I never was, and I'm definitely not now. Not even counting the fact that I completely swore off my heritage before the entire Landsmeet, I was never meant to be anything other than a commoner. I was something inconvenient and supposed to be hidden away. Who my father was only became important and useful when we were trying to stop Loghain.

"It wasn't something I ever wanted. Don't get me wrong—had things been different, I would have done my duty. But…that's not the way things turned out. In the end, I abandoned everything—every person who ever believed in me and every duty I had. What I used to be doesn't matter anymore. Who I used to be doesn't matter. That life…that life is dead and gone now."

He gestured to himself helplessly. "This is what's left—a recovering drunk who's lived most of the last seven years of his life in the gutter. A man who has nothing except maybe a second chance, and I only have that much because of you."

"This…this is so hard to believe, Alistair. I mean, it sounds insane."

"Do you think I'm lying?" Her answer was incredibly important.

"No," she said slowly. "I don't. I can't see any possible benefit to you making it up, not in this situation, and I think you're too good a person to lie to me like this.

"But this is a huge shock. You can see that, can't you? I don't know what to think right now. I hate to do this, I really do, but I need some time to absorb this. It's…it's a little much to take in."

Alistair nodded and stood. "I understand." He picked up the sword and held it out. "Here."

"No." Maeve pushed it back against his chest. "I still want you to keep it." She walked him to the door, holding it open. He wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Instead he just brushed his fingertips across her cheek briefly and stepped outside.

"Alistair!" she called softly when he'd gotten maybe a dozen paces away. "Why did you tell me? You didn't have to."

He stopped and turned back to look at her over his shoulder. "Because you deserved the truth, as ugly as it is. You deserve someone who's honest with you. And…and I wanted someone to know. It's not fair to you, but I didn't want to be alone with this anymore."

Turning away, he continued quickly up the street. Maeve wasn't the only one who needed time. He had to come to grips with it himself—sober, this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Alistair lay on his bed, thinking. He'd done a lot of that the last few days. Questions about whether or not he should have told Maeve everything kept going through his mind. It shouldn't affect anything, he knew that. What he used to be didn't matter anymore—not here, not now. The only reasons he'd told her were what he admitted. She deserved the truth, even if it drove her from him—Maker, please, _no_—and he was tired of hiding what he was from everyone. He didn't want to keep facing the burden of his past alone.

He was tired of being alone.

Telling Maeve might have been a huge mistake. He hope—prayed—that it hadn't been. But he'd had to tell her before he got so attached that her rejection wouldn't hurt. From the way he felt right now, it was probably already too late for that. Fear that she would ultimately turn him away kept him up at night and he'd packed his bag a half dozen times, mind made up to just go, slip out of town and not have to face that. And a half dozen times he'd unpacked his bag, realizing the insanity and futility of that plan.

In the dark room, for he hadn't bothered to light the single lamp, his thoughts inevitably turned to Solona. The dark-eyed and dark-haired mage that had been everything to him—sister-Warden, friend, lover. He had loved her so much that it made him ache and he would have done almost anything for her.

And then in the course of less than five minutes, she'd destroyed his world, irrevocably shattering the dreams he'd had and tearing the heart from his chest. He'd been a wreck when he'd left Denerim, numb to everything except the pain inside him. That pain had slowly turned to rage and the guilt he felt from abandoning Ferelden to the Blight twisted and festered like a sickness in his soul.

Alcohol had numbed everything for a long, long time. But since Maeve rescued him, he didn't have that to shield him from the knowledge of what he'd done. The fact that the Blight had been ended didn't excuse his actions. Some part of him would probably always feel guilty over that, he realized. But he _had_ to let it go. If he couldn't, there was no hope of a future for him, let alone one that included someone else.

A future with someone. It was easy, so easy, to picture that someone as Maeve. She was warm and kind and gentle. No great warrior, no hero striding through history, just an amazing woman who'd lost more than he'd ever had and still had so much to give—even to someone like him.

He ached for her, wanted her in a way that was more than just physical. He wanted just to be near her, to hear her talk and laugh, and watch her smile as she worked. If he tried, he could be someone she could be proud of. That's what prompted him to ask about the job Jakon offered. He could make enough to provide for himself, but it wasn't enough if he hoped to include her in his life. She deserved more.

And if she decided she wanted something with him, there was still more he needed to tell her.

He threw an arm over his eyes. How could he tell her _that_? He couldn't. It was one thing that she knew about the monster he had been, but for her to know that someday in the future he would quite literally turn into one if he didn't kill himself first was too much. It was a burden she shouldn't have to bear. So while he wouldn't lie to her about what it meant for him or for them, he also wouldn't reveal the entire ghastly truth. When the time came—if indeed the point wasn't long moot by then—there were ways it could be dealt with.

There was a soft knock on his door and he held his breath. That would be Hilda. The older woman had warmed up to Alistair considerably since he'd begun renting from her. If there were nights he didn't go to Maeve's—which were admittedly few and far between—she would check on him to see if he wanted to eat dinner with the others. These last few nights he'd stayed shut in his room, and from the side long glances she'd given him, he knew she was both curious and worried as to what had happened between him and Maeve.

The knock came again and he sighed, lowering his arm and sitting up. "Look, Mrs. Miller," he said, standing up and opening the door. "I appreciate what…."

His words trailed off. Standing on the other side of the door wasn't Hilda, but Maeve. She looked up at him and they stood there in the awkward silence.

"Can, um, I come in?" she eventually asked. Alistair stepped back, allowing her room to enter. She crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

"Maker's breath, it's dark in here!"

"Er, sorry. Hold on." He fumbled for the striker on the small table and lit the lamp, turning the wick up a bit higher so that the room was fully illuminated.

"Much better." She stood, twisting her hands together in a nervous fashion.

Alistair gestured toward the bed lamely. "I'd offer you a place to sit, but that's all I've got."

"It's fine," Maeve said quickly, perching on the edge of the bed.

"So…."

"So…I've been thinking. It goes without saying that I was more than a little shocked by what you told me. I had a hard time understanding how someone like you could have ended up in the place you did. No, wait, let me finish," she said, holding up a hand.

"I realized I have no right to judge you. You've been through things most people couldn't imagine if they tried and not only did you survive, you're still a good, strong person. All those things you said? They don't matter. I don't care who you used to be, I only care who you are now. And I like who you are now."

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut tight, almost not daring to believe it was happening. Then he took a deep breath and opened them, moving to sit next to Maeve. Reaching out tentatively to catch her hand, she flipped it over so that she could lace her fingers with his. He kept his gaze focused on their hands.

"Does that mean you might like…to see if this goes anywhere?"

"I would like that very much," she answered softly.

"Then I have something else I need to tell you. A long time ago, something happened to me. It…changed me." Her hand tightened in his. "I'll never live to be old, Maeve. And I can't have children. I can't give you a family or real life together. I can't even give you a name, if it comes to that. This…this isn't fair to you. You should try to find happiness somewhere else."

"No!" Her denial was sharp and Alistair jerked his head up to look at her. "You don't get to decide what's fair for me, not on your own. It's not fair? Well, guess what? _Life_ isn't fair! We both know that. Everything we have can be taken from us any moment and I won't live my life in fear or be consumed with maybes and what-ifs."

Her other hand came up to cup his cheek. "Anything can happen, and I won't deny what's right in front of me because I _might_ lose it someday."

"There's no 'might' about it, Maeve. I will die someday and—"

"And that someday could be tomorrow!" she interrupted him. "You could be killed any day of the week doing your job. I know this. I've already lived it once. It doesn't matter to me. And you never know. Something could happen to me. I could have an accident or get sick or be attacked—"

He pulled her against him. "Don't! Don't say it. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

"Oh, Alistair," she sagged against him. "You can't promise that."

"I can and I do." He wouldn't let her be hurt. If there was one thing he was good at, it was protecting people and there was no one more deserving of it than her.

He felt her smile against his neck.

"And as for the other things," she continued. "Children? It might have been nice to be a mother, but I don't think it's something the Maker intended for me. I already lost one babe. In truth, I'm relieved because I don't know that I could survive losing another.

"And as for a name, if as you say, we get there someday, I already have one, and if that's not to your liking, we can make one up. Things like that _don't matter_, Alistair, not in the long run."

Alistair rested his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the clean scent of her hair.

"So shall we see where this takes us?" he asked.

"Let's."

"In that case…." He pulled away so he could look down at her. "I want to do this properly. I'd like to court you, Maeve."

"Court me?" Her eyes widened. "You say that as if I'm a lady."

"You are," he said earnestly. "And you deserve to have someone worthy, someone who'll treat you as such. I'd like to be that someone." He raised her hand still held in his, shifting it so he could press a kiss to her knuckles.

Maeve blinked several times, raising her free hand to wipe her eyes. "I would love that," she choked out. "But there's one thing you should know."

"What's that?"

"This lady likes kisses."

Alistair grinned and pulled her back against him. Lowering his head, he whispered against her lips, "Then what the lady likes, the lady shall have."

The kiss was slow and sweet. Alistair was mesmerized by the softness of her lips and the way they yielded under his. He'd missed closeness, intimacy like this, found in nothing more than an embrace and a gentle exploration of another's willing mouth.

And Maeve wasn't shy about returning the kiss, her own tongue tracing along his lips and slipping into his mouth.

Eventually, with a groan, Alistair eased himself away. "If I'm going to be a gentleman, I think I should see the lady home."

Maeve clucked her tongue in irritation, but moved away herself. "If you insist."

Alistair helped her up and opened the door. They walked past a very curious Hilda hand-in-hand and Alistair tucked her arm through his for the walk home.

When they arrived back at her place, Alistair bowed over her hand again. "Good night, my lady."

Maeve giggled slightly, a huge grin on her face. "Good night, my prince."

Alistair watched until she shut the door and then turned back toward his lodgings. The honorific hadn't stung when Maeve used it. If she wanted him to be her prince, he could do that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Maeve was just finishing her day in the market when Jakon found his way to her stall. After the incident with Brin and his gang, she found him there at the end of her day, a smile on his face and buying a loaf of bread to take home. Since Alistair had joined the guard and they had become a couple, he'd taken over and Jakon was coming by less often to escort her home, but he did when Alistair's guard rotation or an incident prevented him from being there when she finished for the day. She was a little surprised he was here today since she knew Alistair had the day off, but he just said Alistair had stopped by earlier and said he wouldn't be available. He grabbed the handles on her cart and began to pull it, ignoring her protests she could do it herself.

She'd been in a bad mood since this morning when it seemed like nothing was going right. First she had burned her hand trying to get a loaf of bread out of her oven—something she rarely did—then she had tripped setting up her stall, sending half her wares into the dirt. She was tired and cranky and didn't look forward to having to clean house before she went to bed.

And now the thought that Jakon felt she still needed help getting home made her want to cry.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she told him.

"Do what?"

They passed Brin, who shot a dark look at Maeve before he and his gang moved on.

"That. You have other duties in the city besides babysitting me. I can take care of myself."

"One woman against five men. You can take care of yourself, Maeve, but not when you're outnumbered. This won't last, Maeve, he'll grow bored and move on. Or he'll slip up and find himself in jail. And Ostwick doesn't have that many drunks who can keep coming to your defense, or did you plan on reclaiming all the winos in the city?"

She rolled her eyes as he chuckled, but both were very proud of how far Alistair had come. It had been hard the first few weeks for him to earn the respect of the other guards, but the stories of his duel with Jakon had spread among those who weren't there to see it, and it went a long way to making headway with the rest. Jakon was a large man and one of the most skilled guardsmen in the city. His approval made inroads for Alistair. From there, Alistair's hard work, discipline and skills had won over most of the others.

Then Jakon's face sobered and he spoke quietly. "You and Robert are like family to me. I couldn't let anything bad happen to you, Maeve."

They turned onto her street and he stopped, his attention on her house. "Maeve, there's someone in there."

She nodded, but kept moving. "Alistair stopped by and asked for the key. He must be waiting to give it back."

Pulling her cart into the shed she gathered up what little remained of her wares to bring them into her house. Jakon had his hands full of the boards she used to display her goods when he almost bumped into her from behind. Maeve had stopped, stunned, in the doorway.

Alistair grinned at her from beside her table. It had been set with her wooden utensils and plates and a small roast was plated in the middle, surrounded by some carrots, peas, onions and little white potatoes. Some colorful, pretty wildflowers in a vase on the table brightened the setting. In addition to that, her house was spotless. She'd been unable to finish tidying up this morning like she usually did and now it practically gleamed.

Jakon grinned. "Well, Maeve, let me put these down and I'll just head on home."

"Oh, Jakon, there's plenty to eat, you should stay," she said.

A look passed between the men and they both chuckled.

"I think I'll pass, Maeve," Jakon declined. "Maybe another time. I will take this apple pie, though. Smells delicious! Good night, Alistair."

"Good night, Jakon."

She started to put away the leftover wares when Alistair took her by the elbow and brought her to the table, making her sit, then he took the opposite seat from her and started to slice some roast for himself.

"Alistair, where did you get the meat? All this food?"

"The vegetables I got in the market. The roast is my payment for helping the butcher today. I gave half of it to the landlady, Mrs. Miller, for cooking it for me. You really don't want to see me cook. I just wanted to…do something nice, Maeve. You seemed to be having a bad day when I saw you earlier and I just wanted help."

The roast was really good. Maeve didn't know if it was because she hadn't had to cook it herself, or if it was some special recipe Hilda had used, but she would have to ask the woman what she did. And the gesture Alistair made, arranging all this for her benefit, touched her deeply.

When he said he wanted to court her, he hadn't been kidding. He was the perfect gentleman and she preened a little bit when they were in public. She saw the jealous looks often thrown their way by other women and couldn't help be proud of this man and the fact that he'd chosen her. Alistair had turned out to be a wonderful surprise after years of loneliness and missing Robert.

She leaned over and smelled the flowers, recognizing them as native blooms dotting the countryside just outside the city gates.

"This was your day off and you…did all this for me because I was having a bad day?" Her eyes misted.

Not even Robert had done anything this nice for her before. Her husband had been a good and kind man and had taken care of her when she was sick, but he would never have thought to do something like this. After the rough day she'd had, the feelings washing over her left her choked up, with tears stinging her eyes.

Alistair blinked, looked dismayed at her tears and stammered uncomfortably.

"I-I'm sorry, Maeve, I didn't mean to make you cry. I just…just thought you were having such a bad day today that this might cheer you up some."

She grinned and swiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"It does, Alistair, thank you. Thank you very much!"

"So, those are happy tears?" His boyish grin left her watching his face breathlessly. Maker, this man was handsome and even more so when he smiled.

"Yes." Nodding, she sliced some roast and spooned some vegetables onto her plate. "I was having a really bad day of it, Alistair. I didn't feel like having to dodge Brin again or having to come home and clean."

Alistair frowned. "Has he always bothered you, Maeve?"

"Not when Robert was alive. After he died, well, it was different. But now with you and Jakon, things are all right."

"Has he ever…?" The question cut off and hung in the air between them.

"No, he's only grabbed at me so far. I close my stall early enough in the day that it's still light out and I don't take any backstreets getting home. He isn't in the mood for an audience, I suppose. Come on, I don't want to talk about him anymore."

After they finished, Alistair pressed her into a chair by the fire and made her sit with a steaming cup of tea in her hands while he cleaned up. The sight of the massive warrior, sleeves rolled up and a towel tucked into the waistband of his pants as he did dishes, made her lips twitch.

The warmth of the fire, a full stomach and the muted sounds of the washing lulled Maeve in a protective cocoon of contentment, and she found her chin dropping to her chest. She was aware of Alistair taking the half-empty mug from her hands and setting it off to the side. When he slid an arm around her back and under her knees, she protested weakly, but let him lift her, her arms going around his neck.

"I need to…make sure my things are ready for tomorrow," she murmured.

A warm chuckle near her ear and she smiled, exhausted. "Don't worry about it, Maeve. I'll do it for you."

Setting her on the bed, he slipped her shoes off, loosened her hair and pushed her gently down to the pillow. He tugged the blankets out from underneath her and covered her gently, smoothing them and tucking them around her. For a moment, he stroked her hair and then bent down and kissed her forehead. "Good night, Mae."


	10. Chapter 10

In this chapter, you are required to pump your fist in the air and yell, "Go, Alistair!"

Very good. Carry on. ^_^

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Maeve awoke with a strange sense of foreboding. In times past when she had such moments, she just knew something was going to happen. It had been the same when Robert had died and when she lost their babe. She usually went with her feelings on it and stayed home, but she had too much to do today. There was the delivery to the butcher, she had to bring bread to Hilda's home, and Mr. Smith was ill and she'd promised some soup and bread for him and his children.

Loading up her cart, she tugged it along the street behind her. The sky was an unusual color today—the clouds remaining red-tinged even well past sunrise. Her husband had had an old rhyme, "Red sky at morning, sailor take warning, red sky at night, sailor's delight" and she was reminded of that this morning. The sky, combined with the vague sense of unease, made her shiver.

Normally, she would spend some time visiting with her customers, but not this morning. After making her deliveries, she headed for the market to set up her wares in the stall and prepare for her day to begin.

The feeling continued to grow as the day passed and she had to struggle not to be short with her customers. As the time came to close up for the evening, she waited for Alistair or Jakon to show up. It was almost always Alistair these days, and while he lacked the intimidation factor of Jakon's immense size, he was by no means a small man himself. With a blade at his side, and the backing of his placement in the city guard, he was sufficient protection from Brin and his cronies that she felt completely safe.

Tonight neither of them showed up. Maeve chewed her bottom lip raw as worry began to gnaw at her inside. Always by now one or the other had shown up to walk her home. That was how it had been with Robert. One morning he had said goodbye and he never came home.

She waited as long as she dared, the evening growing darker as the sun set, then grasped the cart handles and began to pull it home. Perhaps the Maker would be kind and she could get home without any issues. Brin hadn't been around the past week or so, and she began to hope perhaps he had met with the bad end he had coming to him.

Laughter ahead made her heart sink into her shoes. She just couldn't get a break, not today.

"Well, well, look who we have here, and without her escort," Brin's tone was mocking.

"Go away, Brin."

Remembering her last encounter with him, she moved away from the front of her cart. If he came at her this time she would run. She didn't expect to outrun them all the way back to her house, but she could perhaps make it to a guard or someone's home where she would be safer.

"_Go away_," his voice rose to a falsetto as he stepped closer to her. "I've been kept at arm's length too long, Maeve. I think it's time you realized who's in charge around here."

Laughter born of malice, not mirth, erupted from his men and Maeve tried not to let herself get surrounded. Grabbing up one of her pies, she threw it at Lanner who fell back, trying to clear his eyes. Grabbing one of the baguettes, she raced through the hole she made in their ranks, the sounds of footsteps on cobblestones speeding her heels.

The flight ended all too quickly. Maeve was strong and young, but she was no match for men in their prime. She was tackled to the ground and she twisted in Brin's grasp, grasping the baguette like a club hitting him with it, screaming at the top of her lungs.

He grabbed her pitiful weapon, his expression more exasperated than pained, and tossed it to one side. Reduced to shoving at him with her hands, she tried to squirm out from under him.

"I've dreamed about you, Maeve. I just want you to be nice to me."

Breathing heavily and using gravity and his own strength to pin her beneath him, he lowered his lips. She twisted away just enough that they landed on her throat instead of her mouth.

"I don't want you, Brin. I've never wanted you."

His brows knit together, his eyes narrowing in anger.

"But you would spread your legs for some filthy drunk? There's no Jakon here now, Maeve, and no drunk to save you. Be nice to me and I promise to keep you for myself, the others won't get a turn."

There were grumblings from the men around him, but Brin ignored them as his hands ran over her curves, her breasts, almost as if he thought he was being gentle. Maybe in his mind he was, but Maeve felt nothing but revulsion.

"You would rape me here in the streets? Someone will hear you." She tried to ignore the fact that no one had come to her screams.

"People know who runs these streets, they won't interfere. I'd prefer more privacy, but I'm determined to have you, Maeve, any way I have to."

"Jakon…Alistair, they'll wonder where I am…."

"They're too busy at the docks tonight. Seems there was some trouble down there," Brin laughed softly, a touch of menace to the tone.

Maker's breath! She had to buy some time to think.

"All right, fine, Brin, you win. But let's go to my house. I don't want to be tumbled in the middle of the streets."

He grinned, no doubt thinking he'd won.

"All right, Maeve, but I'll be holding on to you the entire way. Don't even think of using this as a stalling tactic or trying to get away. I don't want to hurt you, Maeve, but I will if I have to."

She nodded, feigning acquiescence while her mind worked feverishly at how she was going to get out of this.

Maeve struggled, despite her resolve to stay calm. Each step was bringing her closer to her home and rape, and she had no delusions that Brin's promise of not giving her to his men held any worth. Her steps dragged as she tried to forestall that as long as she could. Brin didn't seem to mind, in fact had probably expected it. He was drawing far too much amusement from the situation for it to be a surprise to him.

He grasped her arm, twisting it behind her, stilling her struggles. Pain forced tears out of the corners of her eyes and she cursed inwardly. Whatever happened, this bastard wasn't going to see her cry.

"So you prefer raping women who don't want you, Brin? Or am I just 'lucky' that way?"

"I prefer a willing partner, Maeve. But it matters little to me—struggle or not, the choice is yours. I'll enjoy myself either way. But I can make it good for you if you let me."

Her home was in sight now and Maeve's legs locked, refusing to willingly carry her any further. Brin merely pulled her arm higher up her back, forcing a pained cry from her, and shoved her forward. And then from behind them came a quiet, deadly voice.

"Let her go."

Brin stopped and swung around, pulling Maeve with him. Seeing only Alistair standing there, he laughed and nodded to his men, who began to approach Alistair. Maeve gasped, tensing with more than just fear for herself. He'd held his own against Jakon, and even turned the tables on the bigger man, but now Alistair faced four men who weren't afraid to kill. They drew their blades as they neared him.

"Watch, Maeve, as your savior goes down under them," Brin whispered in her ear. "I want you to see what happens to those who come between me and what I want."

Swallowing, she closed her eyes. She didn't want to be raped, but she didn't think Brin would kill her when he finished, not if she didn't fight. She could survive it. Having already lived through what she thought were the worst things to happen to her, she knew she wouldn't be able to handle it if Alistair died for her sake.

"Call them off, Brin. I won't fight you. Don't…don't hurt him," she managed to choke out. Damn it, she hated begging, but she wasn't too proud to do it if it saved Alistair's life.

"Too late, Maeve. He dies and I get you anyway. And then it'll be Jakon's turn."

He placed a kiss on the nape of her neck, and then rested his chin on her shoulder, his free arm holding her tight against him in a mockery of a lover's embrace. She watched Alistair's eyes narrow, focusing on his attackers. He hefted his shield and drew his sword, the blade whispering free almost silently, and dropped into a battle stance. If these men thought they were facing a drunken sot, they were in for a rude awakening, but she didn't dare hope he could face off against all four and succeed.

Brin's men were moving to encircle him before he moved, but it wasn't to attack. Alistair spread his arms wide. There was a bright, blinding flash and Hass cried out as he was thrown onto the rough stones of the street, stunned. Then Alistair moved forward, his blade laying open the big man's stomach, intestines oozing through the rent in his cheap leather armor and blood pooling beneath him.

Lanner shouted, his attack announced ahead by his panic, and Alistair brought up his shield to block the blow, his sword swinging low to bite into the man's leg, cutting deep to the bone. Screaming, Lanner fell to the cobblestones, holding his nearly severed leg, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood.

Thod slipped as he came forward then, sliding on the blood of his fellows and went down, the speed of his drop aided by a slam from Alistair's shield, breaking his arm with a sickening crunch when he struck the ground. He lay there crying in pain, unable to hold to his blade.

His courage fleeing him, Agon turned and ran, obviously unwilling to test his luck against Alistair.

Maeve gasped as Alistair moved toward them. She had heard tales of Grey Warden prowess, but had never seen it in action before. It had been one thing to watch him duel Jakon for the position, it was another to see him fighting to kill. She'd seen her share of fights before, but nothing prepared her for what she was witnessing now.

Brin yanked a dagger from inside his jacket and pressed it to Maeve's throat.

"No closer or I'll kill her," he warned.

Alistair paused, his conflicting emotions warring on his face.

"Fool," Brin whispered. "I'd have returned her to you, perhaps a little wiser and a bit more worthy."

"Let her go," Alistair's voice was strong and even.

"Drop your blade and kick it over to me, and then walk away and I will. Eventually," said Brin.

Maeve could feel the sting of the blade with each pulse in her throat. There was no way she could speak, but she pleaded with her eyes to Alistair not to leave her. His eyes met hers, and he seemed to be trying to tell her something without speaking.

The clatter of the steel on the ground and her hope died in her breast.

When it bumped her foot, she felt Brin lean over, the dagger going from her throat to her side. Her chance came that moment he was off balance and she shoved at him, knocking him over and bolting.

She half expected Alistair to follow her, but then turned when he didn't and she heard the sounds of a scuffle behind her. Shoving her fist to her mouth to stifle her screams, she stood there horrified.

Brin had the sword, but Alistair wasn't backing down. He used his shield like a weapon, putting it between him and his prey and slamming it into Brin. There was something dark and dangerous in his eyes as he pressed his advance. Brin dropped the sword to the ground and fell.

"Maker's breath! Enough, I yield!"

With a snarl, Alistair glared at him and tensed, and Maeve wondered if he wouldn't just kill Brin right there. He picked up his sword.

"Leave. Take what men you have left and leave. If I see you again, I will kill you," he said.

Maeve watched as Brin slowly rose to his feet from his hands and knees. His arm swung at Alistair and she thought for a moment he was going to punch him. Instead he flung sand and grit toward Alistair's face. Momentarily blinded, Alistair staggered backward.

A couple of blind swings held Brin at bay, but she saw Brin move over to pick up Hass's sword from his dead hand. Alistair went very still as if he was trying to hear his opponent.

"Behind you!" she cried.

He swung around, his blade sliding smoothly into Brin's chest. Brin opened his mouth in a wordless cry and blood flowed down his chin and chest as he sunk to his knees. He looked at Maeve, the light leaving his eyes before he dropped to the cobblestones, dead.

His vision cleared, Alistair pulled his sword free and glanced at Thod, who quailed under his furious gaze. He picked himself up and fled the way Agon had gone, and Maeve doubted either of them would ever be seen again. Not after that. Alistair's checked Lanner and Hass to make sure they were dead, and then wiped his sword on Brin's sleeve. Sheathing his sword, he approached Maeve, who broke free from her shock and flung herself into his arms, sobbing in relief.

"Oh, Maker, Maeve, did those animals hurt you?" he gasped, holding her tightly to him. She shook her head against the cold metal of his armor. She couldn't stop trembling and Alistair held her even tighter.

"If…if you had been hurt, I…. I promised you."

He turned them away from the bodies and toward her house. "Don't look," he murmured, keeping her face pressed against him. "Come on, let's get you home."

Relief mingled with something deeper as he held her in the protective circle of his arms, squeezing her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. She doubted she would be able to breathe even if he weren't holding her. She certainly wouldn't be on her feet now if not for his support.

Once at her door, she tried to fumble the lock open, but her hands were shaking too badly. Alistair gently brushed them out of the way and opened the door for them, closing and locking it once they were both inside. Wordlessly, he sat her in a chair and fetched a blanket. She wrapped it around her as he built the fire, filled the kettle and put tea in a mug.

While the water heated, he removed his sword and shield and laid them on the table. When he started undoing the buckles on his armor, she got up to help. "No, Maeve, you rest," he protested.

"Let me help. Please, I need to help."

Alistair gave her a long look and then nodded, letting her work the buckles and straps. She'd done this often enough for Robert and the familiar routine soothed her. By the time the water was ready, he was down to his gambeson and leather breeches. He led her back to the chair and left momentarily before returning to push the mug into her hands.

As she sipped the tea, Alistair busied himself. He built a fire in the other fireplace, lit every lamp she had and drew all the curtains shut. In no time, her home glowed with light and felt cozy and safe.

When her tea was done, Alistair crouched before her, stroking her cheek softly. "Better?" he asked and she nodded. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He opened his arms and she went into them gladly.


	11. Chapter 11

Hello, friends. And so we come to the final chapter of "A Place to Call Home." As promised, there are sexytimes within, hence the change to the "M" rating. But there's much more than just that. There are some truly beautiful moments in here, we think, and we really hope you enjoy them all. We're planning a short sequel titled "Where the Heart Is," but it won't be ready for publish here for awhile yet.

Thank you very, very much for all the reviews and favorites and alerts. You guys have been awesome.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Alistair carried Maeve cradled to his chest like a child, and when they entered her bedroom, she saw the lamp in there had also been lit and the covers and sheets already turned down. He sat her on the edge of the bed and then knelt before her. Reaching down, he tugged off her boots and socks. Then he pressed one of the longer shifts she slept in into her hands and left the room quietly.

She unlaced her dress quickly, slipping the shift she wore underneath it off and the longer shift on. When she was done, she cleared her throat and the door opened noiselessly as he came back in. He sat beside her and gently pressed her back into the mattress and pulled the covers up. The concern he showed, the care in his face made a lump form in her throat. How could anyone have thrown this man away?

He reached out to smooth her hair back from her face and then cupped her cheek. Freeing an arm, she covered his hand with hers. "Stay with me," she whispered.

Alistair nodded. "I'll be right in the other room if you need anything."

"No, that's not what I mean. I want you to stay with me, here." He hesitated and she tightened her hand on his. "Please. Just hold me."

After a moment he nodded and let go of her just long enough to kick his own boots and socks off and shed his gambeson, leaving only the thin linen shirt beneath, and then slid under the covers with her. She curled up against him as he circled her with his arms. His body was a warm, solid weight against hers, the heartbeat under her ear a steady, comforting rhythm.

The tears came silently, dampening the front of his shirt. Alistair didn't say a word, just held her tightly and stroked her hair. It felt safe to be held in his arms and eventually she calmed down enough to let sleep take her.

* * *

The soft knock on the front door startled Alistair momentarily. Maeve was sleeping, her body pressed against his. Alistair disentangled himself gently, tucking the covers around her as he slipped out of the bed and headed for the main room.

He was almost at the door when the knock came again. As quietly as he could, he slipped his sword free of its sheath, and holding it ready at his side, stood behind the door. He doubted anyone who intended any harm would bother to knock, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks. He unlocked it and opened it a little bit.

Jakon stood there. Alistair stepped back, opening the door wider. The other guardsman took in his unarmored state and the sword in his hand.

"She's fine, then?"

Alistair nodded. "She's sleeping. I got there before they could really do anything."

Jakon just nodded. "Good. I was concerned when we found her cart. Something had to have happened for her to just leave it. But when we found the bodies…well, it wasn't too hard to piece together what happened."

"Are there going to be any problems?" Alistair asked quietly. He would do what he did again in a heartbeat, but if the deaths were going to cause Maeve trouble, he wanted to know now.

"No. Brin and his gang had it coming. No one will be sad to hear of their end."

"Good."

"Very." Jakon pursed his lips for a moment. "You're going to stay with her?" he asked with a slight smile.

"I think that would be best."

"So do I. Her cart's already been brought back, and the boys are taking care of the bodies now. Do you need anything?"

Alistair started to shake his head and then stopped. "Actually, if you don't mind, there is one thing you could get for me." Glancing back over his shoulder at the bedroom door, he lowered his voice and said something to Jakon.

The other man grinned and nodded. "I'll be back shortly."

About ten minutes later, Jakon returned. Alistair was waiting and opened the door, not wanting to risk waking Maeve up with any excessive noise. He took the pouch Jakon held out to him.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He stepped back and started to leave, but stopped and turned back. "I'm glad I was wrong about you, when she first took you in."

Alistair clutched the leather pouch in his hand. "Me, too."

He closed the door quietly and went back into the bedroom. He placed the pouch on the table next to the lamp and slid back into bed. Maeve murmured sleepily when he pulled her back into his arms, but he just kissed her forehead and murmured softly to her and she stilled.

He held her in the warmth of the bed and shuddered at the thought of how close he'd come to losing her.

* * *

There was a sense of confusion when Maeve's eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she looked up at Alistair's sleeping face, not knowing how she came to be in bed being held by him. And then the events of the previous night came back and she shivered.

"Good morning."

She started slightly as Alistair opened his eyes and looked down at her. "You were awake?" she asked. "And it's morning already?"

"Yes and no, not really. Dawn's probably a couple hours off still. But you've been asleep for several hours. How do you feel?"

"All right," she said. "Better."

Maeve reached up to run her fingers along his cheekbone. He kissed the pads of her fingertips as she drew them over his lips. "You saved me," she whispered.

He twitched and his arms tightened. "Always," he whispered back.

The feeling of being held by strong arms, clasped against a warm body was suddenly overwhelming, and just being held wasn't enough. She wanted more. Moving closer if it was possible, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Alistair released a shuddering breath and he dropped his forehead to touch hers. "Maeve, you've been through something very traumatic. I don't think this is what you need right now."

A spark of anger rose in her. Her hands gripped the back of his neck. "I know what I _need_, Alistair. I know what I _want_. I was attacked last night and if you hadn't shown up, Brin would have raped me. Maybe even his entire gang. And they might have killed me."

A pained groan escaped him. "Don't remind me," he said hoarsely.

"I'm not saying it to hurt you. Everything was almost all over for me—for us. I don't want to risk that again. What I want right now is to be held, to feel the touch of someone who cares about me and to be able to touch right back. I need that. I need _you_, Alistair."

He looked at her, his eyes dark and hungry. "If you're sure…."

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Alistair nodded and eased away from her, peeling his shirt off in one swift. Once he was settled back down, he pulled her into his arms once more, hands sliding into her hair to cradle her head as his mouth settled on hers in a fierce, hard kiss.

She sighed into his mouth, letting her body mold to the warm, hard length of his as their tongues twined together. Her hands wandered to his back, fingers mapping the ripples of muscle and ridges and dips of scars.

Pulling his hands from her hair, Alistair brought them down to trace along her sides, shifting so that he covered her slightly. He skimmed his hands along the edge of her shift, and then slipped them under it to start pushing it up.

Maeve tensed slightly in self-consciousness. It had been years since she'd lain with a man and she wasn't as young as she had been. She was still an attractive woman, she knew, but her breasts weren't as high and firm as they used to be. Her hips were a bit wider than she liked—from tasting too many of her own wares—and her stomach was scarred with the faded stretch marks of her pregnancy.

She reached for the lamp, meaning to turn it down. Let them make love in the dark, where her imperfections would be hidden.

Alistair caught her hand. "Don't," he said. "Leave it lit."

When she opened her mouth to protest, he laid a finger across it, then gently traced her lips. "I need to see _you_." He tugged on the hem of her shift again and looked at her.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded and raised her arms as he slid it off her, leaving her clad in only her smallclothes and breast band. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at his face to see his reaction, and her breath caught in her throat.

His expression was nakedly admiring as he stared at her and the intensity of his gaze made her blush. He settled his weight onto his elbows on either side of her and lowered his head to kiss his way along her jaw and down her neck.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he asked.

"I can think of a few things," she murmured and felt his lips curve in a smile against her skin.

He kissed and licked his way along the line of her shoulder and then back down her collarbone. She shivered and giggled a bit as the scruff on his face tickled her. Then his mouth wandered south over the curve of her breast. When his lips found the stiffening nipple and sucked lightly through the linen cloth, she gasped.

Teasing her, he nibbled gently and she curled her fingers into the dark gold of his hair. He turned his attention to her other breast, leaving the damp fabric to rub deliciously against the sensitized peak he had already attended to.

Maeve moaned and squirmed under him. It had been too long and his every touch was like a shock to the senses. She raised herself up. "Off," she whispered. "I want it off."

His fingers worked the laces to her breast band quickly and it was flung off to the side as soon as the last tie came free. She wasn't bare long as his hands came up to cover her breasts. Maeve arched into Alistair, offering herself to the warm, callused hands that rubbed and kneaded and felt so good, so right. Little needy sounds came from her as he rolled the taut peaks between his fingers, listening for and repeating what pulled the most satisfied sounds from her.

Realizing she was neglecting him, she reached out to trace his full lower lip and then the sharp line of his jaw. Her hands dipped lower, playing over the corded muscle of his neck and shoulders, the firm swells of muscle of his massive chest. She paused for a minute to toy with his flat, dark nipples and she smiled when his breath stuttered in her ear.

Following the flat planes of his ribs, she ran her fingers over and through the coarse hair of his chest and abdomen, hair that became finer as it arrowed past the waistband of his breeches. Her fingers curled over his waistband and she tugged.

Alistair moved back to sit on his heels so she could work at his laces. She sighed in frustration as the knot proved unyielding at first before finally giving. Together they pushed his breeches and smalls off, dropping them onto the floor. She half expected him to push her back down onto the bed, but he remained sitting where he was, reaching out to take her hands and place them on his sides, letting her choose what to do.

_He's incredible_, she thought in awe. Not pretty in the way some men were—he had seen too much violence for that to ever be the case. But there was a primal beauty in the long, hard lines of his muscles, the golden skin marked with visible signs of all that he had endured and survived.

She had seen him naked before, long ago, but never like this. Alistair was generously proportioned in all ways and seeing him aroused….

Maeve felt a touch of trepidation. She wanted him—badly—but it had been such a _long_ time and he was not a small man.

Something must have alerted him because he leaned forward, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her. "What's wrong?"

"I-It's been a long time for me, Alistair."

He wrapped his arms around her, callused hands rubbing down the length of her spine. "I won't hurt you," he said. "Do you trust me?" She nodded against his shoulder. "Then let me take care of you."

He shifted, easing them both back down to the mattress and dropped butterfly light kisses to any skin he could reach as his fingers hooked through the sides of her smalls and skimmed them down and off her legs. He kissed her again and she wound her arms around his neck, feeling his hands massage and caress her breasts, stomach, hips and buttocks.

Any lingering tension drained away, and by the time his hand came to rest on the curls between her legs, she parted her thighs willingly and eagerly for him.

He stroked her folds softly, parting them with gentle fingers. Her hips twitched and she pressed up as he teased, working the moisture from her core over his fingers.

They both moaned when he slid one finger inside of her. Maeve's eyes slid shut as he began moving slowly, pumping that single digit in and out of her to relax and loosen her. A kiss was pressed to the corner of her mouth. "Look at me."

She opened her eyes. "All right?" he asked. "Ready for more?"

"Please," she gasped and felt a second finger join the first. He was being careful, moving his fingers in smaller motions, opening them to stretch her and prepare her for what was to come. She could feel the stillness in him as he concentrated on the task, marveled at his self control.

Lifting her hips, she pressed against his hand, driving his fingers deeper in a wordless plea for more. As she did, she could feel the hard length of him pressing against the side of her hip. Maker, all of him was warm, but the heavy weight of his arousal felt like a brand against her skin.

Maeve reached down to stroke over that velvet hardness, her fingers curling along his length. Alistair went completely still, breathing turning harsh. He groaned as she stroked him, throwing his head back with his eyes squeezed shut.

"Maeve," he grated. "Stop."

She froze. "What is it? You don't like it?"

"I like it very much, but you're not the only one it's been a long time for," he panted. "Right now, it's a little much for me."

She let go reluctantly. Instead, she placed her hand on his hip and tugged. "Then enough waiting."

"You're sure?"

In response, the arm still around his neck pulled his head down for another kiss.

Alistair slipped his hand free of her center and slid first one muscled thigh between her legs and then the other. Maeve drew her legs up slightly as he braced himself, her knees gripping his sides lightly. She reached down again, only to help guide him, and with one smooth, swift motion he slid home.

She moaned and arched against him, feeling deliciously full, and crossed her ankles, drawing him deeper within her.

Withdrawing slightly, he thrust back inside, making her gasp. She shifted her hips slightly, giving him a better angle of entry as he established a rhythm. Her hands gripped at his back as she met each thrust, each snap of his hips. She loved the feeling of him within her and each time he withdrew, it was like a little loss—one that was only erased when he filled her again.

His lips were on her skin, kissing and licking, biting just hard enough to make her cry out from the pleasure of it. He was whispering something, but she couldn't make it out over the sound of their ragged breathing. She could feel the tension coiling in her belly and her head thrashed on the pillow. So close, but she wanted—needed—more.

"Please," she begged, clutching at Alistair, unable to put her need into words. "_Please_!"

He shifted and she felt his fingers seek the place where their bodies joined, searching, and she cried out as they found and stroked the hard little nub hidden there.

Her hair clung to her damp forehead and cheeks and his skin was slick with sweat. Maeve could feel her pleasure rising, cresting until she hovered just over the brink and then she fell.

She couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't speak. She cried out as ecstasy raced along her limbs and she lifted off the bed, clinging to Alistair. Shaking and trembling, she convulsed around him, nearly sobbing with the force of her orgasm. Within moments, Alistair followed her, warmth spreading deep inside her as he slammed into her one last time and cried out her name.

Alistair was shaking slightly himself as he lowered himself next to her and gathered her into his arms. She held onto him as he brushed his lips over her temple. "Love you," he whispered raggedly. "Oh, Mae, love you so much."

Pressing her lips to his throat and tasting the salt there, she whispered back, "Love you, too."

* * *

He awoke to the feel of Maeve nuzzling against his chest.

"Tickles," he mumbled, cracking a hazel eye open to look down at her.

"Sorry," she said, but she didn't sound very contrite.

Alistair rolled onto his back, pulling Maeve with him a bit so he could stretch his right arm. They'd slept in each others arms—which was wonderful—but it had been enough to cut some circulation to his arm and now it was numb. Flexing his fingers carefully and slowly to work past the worse of the pins and needles, he regarded the woman held against his chest.

Her hair was tousled, mussed from sleep and sex, and out of her usual bun or braid, it held a hint of curl. Her eyes were slightly puffy and she rubbed them with one hand, the action almost kittenish. He smiled. As adorable as she was right now, _kitten_ was not the word he would use to normally describe her.

Smoothing a tendril of hair away from her eye, he asked, "You all right?"

She stretched languidly against him. "Why wouldn't I be?" An eyebrow arched upward in response. "Oh, right."

Maeve propped herself up on one elbow. "I'm fine. I was a little shaken last night, but you fixed that." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I've been waiting a long time for that. Thank you."

Alistair groaned. "Oh, Mae, _please_. Don't thank me. It feels…weird."

"Hmmm, could I show my…_appreciation_…in other ways then?" A suggestive wiggle against him left no doubts as to what those other ways were.

He started to reach for her when he recalled the short errand he sent Jakon on last night. "Wait," he said, sitting up and tugging her up with him. "I want to talk to you about something first.

Settling herself crossed-legged, Maeve looked at him warily and tucked a sheet around to cover herself. Alistair looked at her curiously.

"Embarrassed?" A half-shrug and a look away were her only answers, and he recalled her reaching to turn off the lamp last night. He reached out and gently but firmly tugged the sheet away, letting it pool around her waist and leaving her bare before him.

Looking at her in the harsher light of morning that streamed in through the gaps in the curtains and around the edges, he tried to see how she saw herself to cause such a reaction. She was all soft curves and warmth—a body made for loving and to be loved. Were there imperfections? Yes, but who was perfect?

Briefly, he had an image of Solona crawling to him across a bed, skin smooth and unblemished, muscles taut and sleek under it. That might have been perfection if it hadn't hidden a treacherous heart and come at such a high cost. A lesser man—a stupid, ignorant, foolish man—might have chosen that over what was before him now, but Alistair wasn't those things, not anymore. The imperfections were what made her _Maeve_ and that's what made her _perfect_.

He leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. The kiss was almost chaste, a bare brushing of lips, but it held the promise of so much more. "Perfect," he whispered.

His reassurance had the desired effect because she blushed, bit her lip and smiled, and made no move to draw the sheet back up once he released her.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked a trifle breathlessly.

Alistair reached back and plucked the pouch off the table. Instead of opening it, he twisted it in his hands, feeling suddenly unsure, wondering if what he was about to do was too soon or not enough.

"I've…come to care about you. A lot." He forced himself to meet her wide, gray eyes. "I've wasted so much of my life doing things wrong that I don't want to wait to do things right. I—"

Words were something he was never good at and he simply pulled the pouch open in a hurried motion, tipping the object into his hand. In his cupped palm, it suddenly looked tiny and pathetic, not nearly enough for what he was about to ask. He held it out anyway, laying his fingers flat so that she could see.

A simple, silver ring.

"Marry me," he said hoarsely.

It sat there on his hand between them. Maeve looked from the ring to him and then back to the ring. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

As the silence drew out, Alistair felt something inside him break. His fingers curled back over the ring and he let his hand fall down onto the bed. He'd thought—hoped—that this would be something they both wanted. The time they'd spent together…. He thought for sure that it meant she wanted something more permanent. Well, this wouldn't be the first time he was this wrong.

It hurt, but not enough to make him leave. Maybe it was too soon. Who knew? But he would stay unless—or until—she asked him to go. Might as well take what he could get, right?"

He swallowed. "I'm sorry, I—"

His arms were suddenly full of Maeve, having launched herself across the small gap between them and latching on to him with enough force to almost rock him off the bed. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck.

"Yes," she breathed in his ear. "Oh, Maker above, a thousand times yes!"

The embrace was returned fervently, his arms banding tight across her as if he could pull her into his skin.

"I still can't give you much. You—"

Slim fingers on his lips stilled the words. "I already told you once, it _doesn't matter_. You've given me everything I could ever need, and there's only one thing I would ever ask of you."

"Anything."

"Your heart."

"I can't give you something that's already yours."

Her smile was radiant. "Then what more could I possibly want?"

He brought the hand with the ring back in between them and held it up to her. She took it gingerly, sliding it onto one finger and then moving it over one more when it was slightly too loose.

"We can get it refitted. I wish it was more. You deserve gold and jewels."

Maeve shook her head and wiped a hand across her damp eyes. "It's perfect," she said, twisting them around and pushing him back down onto the bed. She leaned down to capture his mouth in a kiss deeper than the one he'd given her minutes before. "_Perfect_."

And as Alistair's hands slid up her thighs to grip her hips, he realized it was.


	12. Where the Heart Is  Chapter 1

So, it took me long enough to get this up here, even though I finished it on the meme a couple of months ago. A short epilogue to "A Place to Call Home" written as a collaboration between Ravenia and myself. Enjoy!

* * *

**Three Years Later**

Running her fingers over the countertops and looking into the baking oven, Maeve appraised the overall condition and cleanliness of the kitchen. She was impressed with it. This was more than she could have ever hoped for, an opportunity almost too good to be true.

"So, what do you think, Maeve?" asked the old man standing nearby.

Though the recent ill health of his wife was forcing her biggest competitor out of the city to the countryside, Maeve couldn't say she was sorry to see them go. It opened an opportunity for her she wouldn't have had otherwise. She and Alistair had been aggressively saving their money for almost two years now, hoping a bigger place to let her grow her business would come along. That this particular shop was now vacant was a stroke of rare and unexpected luck.

It wasn't so much the shop that was so appealing—though the sheer amount of space in this one was staggering—but what was above it. The entire floor above the bakery was a living space, the building both a business and a home, all in one. It ensured that she could live here and never have to leave the comfort and warmth of her home to go to work. Everything she needed was right here—kitchen, display counters, a larder and plenty of storage. Never again would she have to stand at her small stall in the market, in the rain or cold or blistering heat, and come home with aching feet and a sore back at the end of the day.

Best of all, it was right on the market square and would attract more business, in addition to all her regular customers. And the eastern front wall would gain the benefit of the morning sunshine, but be protected from the worst of the summer heat when the sun climbed to its zenith.

Even better, the owner was tired of dealing with tenants and was willing to sell and not just rent the property. But there weren't that many bakers in town and he wanted to sell quickly, making his asking price attractive. Maeve knew there would be others who would pay for the location of the building alone, but she was the first to make an offer, and she haggled him down even more to a fair price for both of them, with her coming out the better for the deal.

Now she just had to take that last step and commit.

"Well, Maeve? Will you take it or not?"

"Just give me a moment."

As much as she had lowered the price, the cost would almost completely drain her and Alistair's savings. She wasn't sure if she should go ahead and agree without talking to him first. This was the reason they'd been saving after all, but still….

"Maeve?"

"All right, yes, I'll take it."

Coins for an initial payment exchanged hands and papers were signed agreeing that ownership of the property would transfer tomorrow when she paid the balance. Maeve practically danced in the middle of the floor, her mind already envisioning the delightful things she would fill this place with. Alistair was going to be so excited!

She had to force herself to not run all the way home, making a conscious effort to walk calmly.

Once home, she looked around the small house that for the past seven years had seen so many changes in her life. It had been the site of a new start and a new life, not once, but twice. First with Robert and now with Alistair. The loss of her first husband and their babe would always be a small ache in her heart, but Alistair loved her so fully and so well, it had healed the pain she hadn't realized she carried with her until it was no longer there, freeing her to let them go at last. Even now she wondered what she had done in her life for the Maker to have sent this wonderful, warm, golden man into it. He often said she had saved him, but Maeve knew it was Alistair who had saved _her_. In so many ways, he was her rock, her shelter, the one who made even the worst things seem so much more bearable and everything else better than she could have dreamed.

She tidied up, unable to stay still, and prepared a small meal for them, expecting him home shortly.

* * *

"He took it and walked right off, just as brazen as you please!"

"You're telling me he stole the dagger in plain sight and just strolled off with it? Be serious, Edgar."

"I'm telling you, he did!" A hard look and the merchant quailed a little. "Well, all right. He snatched it and ran off, but it was still brazen. The pair of them has been stealing from this market for years, Sergeant! I managed to catch the little thief this time and held him for the guard. I don't care what you do, but I insist that they be punished. It's not right that honest citizens suffer because of these little sneak thieves!"

Alistair sighed and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. That never went well when you were wearing gauntlets. He looked at the pair of "thieves" the weapons merchant was demanding be punished and frowned.

Two brothers, one an adolescent and the other little more than a child, and both painfully skinny. Their features were haggard and their cheeks slightly hollow. From where their arms and legs stuck out through the ragged ends of their clothing, he could easily see the sharp bones of their too-thin wrists and ankles. He sighed again.

"What do we do, Captain?" he asked Jakon quietly. The big man looked the children over, no doubt seeing and thinking the same thing Alistair did. The older one, the one who actually took the dagger, was probably old enough to go to jail. The younger, however, was not. Added to that was the fact that he clung to his older brother's back and wailed whenever someone else came near. There was no way the child could go to jail and it was risky to even send the older one.

"Not going to send them to the jail," Jakon murmured. "It'd be like throwing hares to the wolves. Though I suspect the bigger one might have a pretty good set of teeth."

Indeed, the older of the two boys had a kind of wiry strength, thin as he was, and the swelling on his left eye showed he had put up some kind of fight when he was caught. The small circle of guards surrounding him was probably the only thing that kept him from bolting.

"The orphanage?" Alistair asked.

"Aye, that would be my thought, but…." Jakon made a disgusted sound. "I know they're close to full up at the moment, and I think as soon as anyone turned their back, the two of them would be gone. And then they'd be right back on the street.

"We need to put them somewhere, but right now I don't know where. Maybe I can clear a small cell in the jail, keep them for awhile till this all blows over while I figure out what to do."

Alistair looked at the children again. It was impossible to miss the terror in the face of the younger one and he could see the fear in the older one's eyes, even though the boy did a good job of putting up a brave front. They were really going to jail? For this? For stealing something so they could buy food? What was their only crime, really? Being homeless, starving orphans?

He drew a deep breath and then let it out slowly, coming to a conclusion.

"I'll take them," he said.

Jakon looked at him in disbelief. "What?"

"I'll take them home with me, for a few days until you decide where they're going to go. I can keep an eye on them."

"I don't know, Alistair." Jakon rubbed his jaw. "The little one, sure. But the older one?"

"Do you think we'd be able to separate them? They've practically got a death grip on each other. And we both know jail isn't where they belong."

"Maeve is going to skin you."

Alistair grinned. "Probably. I don't think she'll be upset though. I mean, look at them, Jakon."

"You have a point. Well, all right. It's your hide. Come on, let's break the news."

Both men stepped over to the children and Jakon fixed them a stern look. "Now, listen carefully. You stole and that's breaking the law. By all rights, I should march the two of you down to jail." The boys tensed and Alistair could see them preparing to flee.

"However," Jakon continued. "As the goods were returned, I'm inclined to go easy on you. My sergeant here," he indicated Alistair, "is willing to take you home for a few nights until we decide where to put you."

"And what if we don't want to go?" the older boy snapped belligerently.

"Then you'll go to jail," Jakon rumbled. "And if you run, when we catch you—and we will—that's where you'll go. I can't promise you'll stay together if that happens."

Both boys paled. The little one clutched his brother's shirt and whispered something. The older brother sagged. "Fine," he muttered.

"Smart lad. And I'll warn you now, the folks you're going to are good people, but they're not fools. Abuse this opportunity and you'll regret it. What are your names?" Neither boy answered, and Jakon glowered at them. "Your names."

"Will," the older boy said sullenly. "And this here's Lyle."

Lyle started to say something, but Will smacked him lightly on the head. Alistair wondered Lyle was going to say that Will didn't want them to know, but didn't pry. It wasn't any of his business.

He gestured to the two boys and they shuffled forward. Will held onto his brother's hand tightly and shied away slightly when Alistair got too close. He stepped back a pace and walked beside them as Alistair led them away.

The walk back home was utterly silent, and to his surprise they didn't try to run. When the cottage came into view, he could see smoke curling up from the chimney. That meant Maeve was already home. This was going to be…exciting.

Nudging the children in front of him, he started to reach for the handle, but the door swung open. She did that sometimes, when she heard the clank of his armor when he came home. She opened the door, a smile on her face. However, her expression quickly changed to shock at the sight of the children, and he grinned.

"Surprise."

* * *

When Maeve heard Alistair's footsteps on the stoop outside, she ran to the door, smiling excitedly and pulled it open. Gasping, her eyes opened wide, her brows going up in surprise.

There stood her husband in his guard uniform, a large grin on his face and before him were two bedraggled looking, half-starved children.

"Surprise," he said.

"And here I was thinking I was going to surprise you…" she murmured bemusedly.

Hair the color of midnight crowned their heads and dark eyes peered up at her from faces so similar they could only be siblings. The older, a boy, on the verge of adolescence, had such anger she raised a brow, catching his gaze and holding it before he dropped his head. There was sullen resistance in his stance and she knew he was going to be trouble. The younger she wasn't so sure of. He had a sweet face and eyes that touched something deep inside Maeve. No one that young—and he appeared no older than seven or eight—should have eyes that had seen so much pain.

She smiled at her husband, knowing immediately why he'd brought them home.

"So we're to have guests?"

"For a few days, yes."

"Well, if they're going to stay here, they'll have to get cleaned up. And I have some news of my own."

Putting the children in the bedroom with a couple buckets of hot water, some soap and towels, Maeve scrounged up some old clothes for them to wear. Alistair's for the older boy, hers for the younger. None of it would fit, but they could tuck them in and roll them up and that would do for tonight until Maeve could alter them.

As she exited the room to give the kids some privacy, Alistair swept her up into his arms and held her close, placing his cheek to hers, his chin on her shoulder. She smiled and closed her eyes, loving the warmth and closeness of her man for a moment before he murmured in her ear.

"They have no one, Maeve. They've been living on the streets for some time, and the boy's been stealing to keep him and his little brother fed. Jakon didn't know where to put them besides a cell and I couldn't do that."

Hugging him back, she nodded. Children didn't belong in jail, and she couldn't fault her husband for speaking up when that seemed like the only option.

"But we have no room here," he said, looking around. "It's barely big enough for the two of us, let alone the kids. So, I was only able to promise them a few days."

She grinned. The Maker must have given him the gift of good timing.

"My news might help," she said. He raised a brow at her and her smile broadened as she imagined his reaction. "You know that shop that was vacated earlier this week just off the market? The bakery?" He nodded. "It's for sale. I checked it out and it has everything we need, including plenty of living space above it. I managed to get a very fair price, but it's still going to take almost all our savings. I already agreed, so I hope you—"

Alistair laughed and swung her in a very tiny circle. "Maker's breath, Maeve! It's _perfect_! And just in time, too!"


	13. Where the Heart Is Chapter 2

Maeve went from sleep to wakefulness in one swift jolt of anticipation. She smiled, thinking of the day ahead. It would be a lot of work and would probably entail several days' worth of labor, but their household would soon be moved to a larger and more comfortable home. And she would at last have her shop, a real shop, not a stall in the market exposed to the worst cold of winter or the blistering heat of summer.

The smile on her face remained as she shifted to look at the profile of the man beside her. Her feelings curled in to something deeper, warmer as she watched Alistair sleeping peacefully beside her. His was a face she never grew tired of looking at. Waking up in his arms was the best part of her day, right after falling asleep in them. Rolling over on her side, she ran her fingers along his arm softly so as not to wake him.

A worried frown crossed her brow when she remembered what he had brought home with him last night. The two orphans were in a desperate situation, and she wasn't sure what could be done about them. The older had been quiet and sullen most of the night. The younger was sweet natured, though very shy. Neither spoke more than a handful of words to either adult, though they whispered to each other when they didn't think she or Alistair was paying attention.

The move would ensure they had a lot more room and would be a big boost to her business. She anticipated recouping the loss her purchase had incurred to their savings eventually, but she knew all too well how children cut into what little money you did have. If it weren't the constant need for new clothing, food and other sundries, there was fact that children get sick, a lot. Who knew what problems those children carried with them—not just physical, but emotional as well?

Her mother had been too ill to care for them by the time Maeve was as old as the boy sleeping in the other room and it had been on Maeve's shoulders to tend her younger siblings and try to earn enough to keep them all fed. The burden of their father's drunken rages had typically fallen on Maeve's shoulders as well when she tried to protect her siblings. She had been where these kids were now—though maybe not quite as dire—and part of her wished someone had thought to help her.

As a temporary solution, it worked for now, but she knew she and Alistair would have to have a long talk about this. Still, it was going to be a huge change to their lives.

With the thought of all she had to do today came the urge to start doing it and she began to slip out of bed. Alistair rolled over as she moved, draping an arm over her waist and trapping her momentarily between his chest and the bed.

"Mae," he said, nuzzling the back of her neck. "Thanks for not saying 'no' when I brought them home. We really had no place to send them."

Squirming around so she was facing him, she smiled and said, "I know. But we really need to talk about this, Alistair. Not right now, though. We have a lot to do."

"We'll talk later. And yes, we do have a lot to do. I'll take today off—Jakon won't mind—and help with the move."

"That would be a big help. If you could, Mr. Chandler, the man who has the general store on the corner, promised me some crates we could use for the move. Could you please get those for us?"

"Mmhmm." He brought her hand up to kiss it. "I'm at your service, my lady."

* * *

After a good breakfast, Alistair left promising to return shortly with the crates and Maeve and the children began packing. As long as she kept things fun, the little one didn't mind helping out. He was chipper and enthusiastic, and his eagerness to please was endearing. The older one simply did it, she suspected, because she had told him to. He didn't seem to have much enthusiasm for anything except watching over his little brother.

"Where are we going?" Lyle asked.

"I just bought a new shop and we'll be living there," explained Maeve.

"Until they lock us up," scowled William.

"Will!" the younger gasped. He turned huge eyes on Maeve, brimming with tears. "They really won't send us to prison, will they?"

"No, Jakon wouldn't do that."

"He will, he told us he will!" Will insisted defiantly.

"He _won't_! It's far more likely you'll be sent to the orphanage." Maeve kept her voice level and soothing. There was no need to be harsh with them, not after everything they'd already been through.

"That's full, he said."

"Then the Chantry maybe. I don't know…."

Yeah, right. As if Alistair would _really_ let anyone be sent to the Chantry against their will, and especially not children. It wasn't going to happen, not while he had breath in his body.

She felt Lyle's little hand creep into hers and she looked into pleading dark eyes. "Please, lady, I don't want to go to the orphanage. And I don't want to be a priest. Can't we just stay with you?"

"Shut up, knucklehead, we can't stay with her. She's not our mom."

Maeve looked at the little one and squeezed his hand. So thin, so pale, a sharp contrast to the dark hair curling on his head. He was half starved, but still she could see the beauty that was there under the dark circles around his eyes and the hollowness of the cheeks. Her heart ached for him—for the both of them. It was hardly William's fault that life had been cruel to them. And his anger did nothing to disguise the fact that the bigger and better portions of what he'd managed to scrounge for food had almost certainly gone to his little brother.

"Not until I fatten you two up some," she promised. "Maker's breath, you two are nothing but skin and bones!"

All right, her mind was made up. At least a few days of some stretching of their stomachs with hearty, plentiful food should do both of them a world of good before they were sent off to wherever they had to go. If it took a little longer than just a few days to decide what to do with them, well, they would deal with it then.

* * *

Over the next two days, Alistair and Maeve finished moving all of their belongings to the new building. William continued to remain sullen, but he at least did as he was told, if not without a great deal of grumbling under his breath. Lyle, however, remained bright and chipper and still eager to help. But Alistair noticed the cautious, furtive looks he kept throwing his brother and knew that they had little time to decide what was going to be done before the children bolted again.

The next morning, when he went into work, he stopped by Jakon's office. He knocked on the timeworn wooden door and waited for a call before easing inside. Jakon's office was small, and seemed even more cramped for the large man behind the desk.

"You busy?" Alistair asked.

Jakon looked up from the night's reports and shook his head, gesturing for Alistair to sit in the one battered chair in front of his desk.

"Did something happen?"

This time it was Alistair's turn to shake his head. "No. But I wanted to ask, what's going to happen to the pair of urchins living under my roof?"

Frowning, Jakon leaned back in his chair and scratched the side of his face. "To be honest with you, Al, I don't know what we can do except send them to the Chantry. They'll probably put the older one in templar training, and maybe the younger when he's older. Unless they apprentice them to a trade, but I know they're always looking to recruit and it would be cheaper for them."

Templar training. "No," Alistair said flatly.

Jakon's eyebrows shot up. "No? They've no where else to go, Alistair. They'll be completely provided for this way. It's not like anyone else is going to do it. Unless…you want to keep them?" When Alistair just gave him a level look, he sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

"Oh, Maker's breath, you do. Alistair, listen, you're my friend, but do you really think this is a good idea? You're a guardsman. If that boy keeps stealing and breaking the law, not only will you not be able to protect him, I don't know if I'll be able to protect _you_. You just moved, Maeve's getting herself set up again—you don't need this hassle right now. Take my advice, the Chantry is the best place for them."

Getting to his feet, Alistair shook his head. "I'm not doing that to those kids," he said quietly. "I'll talk to Mae tonight. Maybe we won't keep them, but I'll find something else if I have to. I'm not letting them go to the Chantry."

"This isn't Kirkwall, Alistair. When was the last time we had any trouble with apostates or maleficar? They'll be fine."

"That's…that's not the reason, Jakon. Trust me on this, all right?"

Jakon threw up his hands. "All right, fine! But you don't get any time off if Maeve decides to kick your ass for it. And promise me that they'll go the Chantry before they go back onto the streets."

"I promise."

"Good. You're on duty at the main gate today, so I suggest you get going and figure how exactly in the Maker's name you're going to do this."

* * *

That night, after supper was finished, the dishes done and the children asleep in the pallets made up for them in a spare room, Alistair helped Maeve move sacks of flour and sugar around in the kitchen so that she would be ready to begin baking again tomorrow.

"We need to talk," he said, stacking another sack of flour against the wall.

"Oh? About what?" she asked absentmindedly as she carefully went over the inside of the ovens with a damp rag again. She wanted to make sure that they were as clean as they could possibly get before she began her own baking in them.

"About the little dreamers we have upstairs," he said, catching her arm so that he knew he had her full attention.

Oh, dear. She'd been hoping to delay this conversation a little while longer. At least long enough to get Alistair used to having them around and give her plan a greater chance of working. Chewing on her lower lip, she dropped the rag onto the edge of the bucket and took Alistair's hand to tug him over to a chair. Pausing only to brush a bit of flour from his cheek, she settled herself across his lap, humming happily as his arms came around to hold her.

"I've been thinking about it," she said.

"And?"

"Well, I want to hear what you think first."

He frowned. "I talked to Jakon," he began. "He says the only option is the Chantry. But I don't like it." Maeve nodded and carded her fingers through his hair. She knew from the stories he'd shared, that he didn't have fond memories of just being handed off to the Chantry, of not having a choice as his fate was decided for him. "The only other option would be to find them a home, a family willing to take them in."

"Ah, see, that's exactly what I've been thinking about. And I think I might know the perfect place for them to live."

"Oh?" There was curiosity in his voice, but she also saw the wariness in his face. She was going to have to talk fast.

"Well, yes. They're just a couple, really, not a big family. And they don't have any children, but I think they might like some. They own their own home, and they both have jobs, so the children would be provided for."

"Go on…."

"They're really very nice people, Alistair. They'd make wonderful parents."

His frown deepened and she felt a flutter of worry. "You know them well?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, very, very well. You do, too."

For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something, and then sighed and shook his head faintly. "It sounds like you've given this a lot of thought. And I know you wouldn't send them anywhere they'd be unhappy or in danger. So…what family were you thinking?"

She ran light fingertips over his cheekbone and smiled at him tentatively, hopefully. Alistair's brows pulled together in confusion. "I don't…. Wait. You mean here? With us? You want them to stay with us?"

Maeve nodded, and Alistair groaned and buried his face in the side of her neck. "Oh, Alistair, no, please hear me out! I've given it a lot of thought, I really have and it's perfect! If you'd just—!"

He stilled her words by placing a single finger over her lips. And then she saw the humor sparking in his hazel eyes. "I've been thinking all day about how to get you to agree to that, only to find out that you've been planning the same exact thing. Sweet Andraste, woman, all that worry for nothing."

"You've been thinking the same thing? Really?"

"Yes, really," he chuckled quietly, and then he sobered slightly. "I'd never really thought about having a family. First because I'd never thought I'd have the chance, and then because…well, you know. And then I met you, and you were enough.

"What Jakon said was true. They'll be provided for in the Chantry. They'll have a home, food, clothes. They'll get an education. But—"

A creak came from the stairs and they both looked over. It was dark, and hard to see, but Maeve thought she detected a flutter of movement.

"Wait here a minute," Alistair muttered and eased her off his lap to stand and slip upstairs. He returned shortly. "Both asleep. Must have been the house settling."

There were few times that Maeve thought her husband was lying to her, and this was one of those times. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but he just gave her a guileless smile and pulled her in for a kiss.

"Come on, let's finish cleaning up and go to bed. We can tell them in the morning."


	14. Where the Heart Is Chapter 3

In the quiet dark of the shop downstairs, Alistair waited.

Quite honestly, he was surprised that William hadn't attempted to run away before now. It was obvious he didn't trust anyone, especially those in authority, and nothing seemed likely to sway him. In all likelihood, he'd only stayed as long as he had because of the food—and that was more for his brother's benefit than his own.

Maeve had been shocked by the speed at which the children inhaled their food, eating as if they expected what was set in front of them to be taken away or as if it were their last meal. But Alistair, who'd known that type of hunger all too well when he'd been a homeless drunk, hadn't been. Instead, he watched them. The need to escape, to get away—also a too well known feeling from his past—would eventually drive William to take what he could and flee with Lyle.

It had come to a head that night. Lyle's uneasiness, the fact that William was eavesdropping—not to mention his rather poor attempt at pretending to be asleep when Alistair checked on them—all told him that if he wasn't careful, the children would slip out and go where they wouldn't be found. So after he and Maeve had gone upstairs to make love as quietly as they could, Alistair waited until she fell asleep, and then got dressed and came downstairs to wait.

A part of Alistair—a very, _very_ small part—wondered if he was doing the right thing by trying to keep them here. The children weren't prisoners. If they truly didn't wish to be here, then they had no right to keep them. But the memories of thin bodies and haunted eyes quieted those thoughts. Sometimes people needed to be forced to accept help. He was living proof of that. And if it meant guarding this door every night so that he could repay what had been done for him, then so be it.

He was pulled from his musings by the creak of a stair, and eased off the stool he was sitting on beside the back door. Straining his ears for the almost inaudible padding of feet and near silent whispering, he very carefully reached behind a work counter and retrieved the shielded lantern. In one smooth motion, he set it down and slid it open a tiny bit, so that a narrow band of light illuminated the kitchen.

Both children immediately froze, though not before Lyle let out a frightened squeak. William, however, immediately faced him, eyes narrowed and bracing himself as if for a fight.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asked softly.

"We're leaving," William said flatly.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. Now get out of our way."

Alistair shook his head. "I can't let you do that."

"You can't keep us here!" William hissed, shaking off his brother who was tugging anxiously on his arm. "And I'm not letting you try and send us to the Chantry!"

Alistair sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd been afraid of that.

"We're not going to send you to the Chantry."

"Yes, you are!" William spat the words out contemptuously. "I'm not stupid. I heard the two of you talking."

Taking a deep breath, Alistair thought quickly. He was going to have to remain calm, to try and get William to calm down. "You only heard part of what we were discussing," he began. "What we were saying was—"

"I heard enough!"

"What we were saying," Alistair overrode the boy's interruption, "was that we going to ask you if you want to stay here. We don't want you going to the Chantry. We want you to stay here, with us."

In the few moments of disbelieving silence, Lyle spoke up. "Stay here with you? You mean like a family?"

William rounded on his brother, snarling, "They're not our family!"

"But, Will," Lyle protested, "they're nice! And they feed us! And they don't hit us! Why can't we stay?"

"Because I said so." He shook his brother to emphasize his words.

"Calm down." Alistair moved a few steps towards them. "There's no need to be so angry at your brother."

"I'm not his brother!"

Lyle's indignant voice stopped both Alistair and William for a moment. And then William cuffed Lyle hard on the back of the head. "Shut up, you idiot!"

"Hey!" Alistair stepped closer and grabbed for William's arm to prevent a second blow. "Don't hit him, Lyle hasn't done anything."

"My name's not Lyle!"

Alistair's brow furrowed as he struggled to keep William from lunging at his brother. "What are you talking about? What do you mean that's not your name?"

At the same time, William was writhing in Alistair's unyielding grip. "Don't do it!" he hissed. "Don't you dare!"

Lyle cast terrified glances between William and Alistair before finally blurting out, "My name's Lilah! And I'm not a boy!"

William groaned and began cursing under his breath, his vocabulary incredibly well developed. He twisted again, and aimed a knee at Alistair's groin, which Alistair was just barely able to block with his thigh. He winced as the blow connected, hard enough that it was going to leave a bruise. A new voice added to the tumult in the kitchen.

"What in the Maker's name is going on?"

All three turned to look at Maeve, wrapped in a simple dressing grown, hands on her hips.

Lyle—Lilah promptly burst into tears.

* * *

By the time Maeve got Lilah calmed down, William had also resigned himself to the fact that no one was going anywhere tonight. He sat sullenly on the floor, legs drawn up and arms dangling on his knees while Maeve puttered around, putting the kettle on for tea before warming some milk for Lilah and then bundling her back into bed.

Once his sister was back upstairs, the fight seemed to drain out of William, leaving him looking pale, drawn and much younger than his years. He accepted the mug of tea Maeve pushed into his hands, but didn't drink it as Alistair and Maeve took their own mugs and sat down to wait.

"I did it to protect her," he muttered after several minutes of silence. "I thought she'd be safer if no one knew she was a girl. No one would try to…." He broke off, cheeks reddening. "Take advantage," he muttered before shifting uncomfortably and drew a shaky breath. "She didn't get it. She still doesn't. How do you explain to your kid sister that you're trying to keep people from…_hurting_ her?"

William kept his eyes focused down as he spoke, unwilling to look at them. But he raised his head now, his expression pleading. "I can take care of her. I _can_! I always make sure she eats first, and I try to find her warm clothes and someplace dry to sleep when it rains. And I don't ever leave her alone. I'm always there to protect her."

His eyes glimmered and he scrubbed a hand across them angrily. "It was the last thing Ma said to me. 'Take care of your little sister, Will. Keep her safe.' And I _have_! For the last fours years I've done what Ma asked and kept Lilah safe."

Maeve made a soft sound and covered her mouth with her hand, her own eyes blinking rapidly. She made as if to stand and go to the boy, but Alistair reached out and touched her arm gently.

"Why don't you go upstairs and check on Lilah, hmm?"

"Check on her? But we just…." Understanding dawned in her eyes and she gave a small nod. "Of course. I'll be upstairs." She padded softly by William, not stopping, though she did cast him a quick, sad glance as she went upstairs.

"You don't think I can do it, do you?" William glared at Alistair, challenging him to agree. "You don't think I can take care of her anymore, do you?"

"What I think," Alistair said slowly, "is that Lilah is incredibly lucky to have a brother who loves her so much. I think that she's been blessed to have someone who's willing to sacrifice so much for her. And I think that you've done an amazing job at taking on a responsibility that no child should ever have to."

Alistair stood up, crossed the few steps toward the boy, and sat down next to him, mimicking his posture. Will was back to looking at the floorboards between his feet, but at least he didn't shift or get up.

"Will, everyone needs help sometimes."

"You don't," William scoffed, and Alistair allowed himself a small, sad smile.

"You'd be surprised at how much help I needed. I know how desperate you are, and how scared. You're not going to be able to keep protecting Lilah. Look at what happened in the market the other day. How long until you get caught and really do go to prison? Or worse, strung up because you've committed one crime too many? What happens to Lilah then? Who protects her when you're dead or in jail?"

William didn't say anything in response, but he had a white knuckle grip on his mug of tea.

"I'm not asking you to trust us. It doesn't work like that, I know. But let us help. Let us give you a place to stay, food to eat, clothes. We can do it on a trial basis if you want. Two weeks. If at the end of two weeks, you think we're no better than what awaits you on the streets, you can go, and we'll give you what we can to help."

"Why? Why would you do this for us? You don't even know us."

Alistair leaned his head against the counter and decided to speak frankly. "Three times in my life, I've been in situations so dire, so desperate and hopeless, that I couldn't see any way out. And each time, someone came into my life and was there to extend a helping hand and pull me out. I've managed to repay one person for that. There's another who I should repay, but I don't think I can ever bring myself to. And the first…. There's no way to repay him. It's too late for that, no matter how much I wish I could. So let me help you instead. Let me repay what he did for me by being the one to help you and Lilah now."

Long minutes passed. Finally, William looked over at him, his jaw set firmly. "I don't trust you."

"That's fine."

"And the _second_ I think Lilah's in any danger, we're gone."

"I completely agree."

"If she's even unhappy, we're not going to stay."

"Absolutely."

Eyes narrowed, William glared at him, searching for any hint of mockery or deceitfulness. His lips pursed angrily when he didn't find any. "And you teach me how to protect her."

"William, I would love to."

* * *

Two weeks came and went and became a month. One month slipped into two and then three.

Lilah took to their new life like a duck to water. She started to grow her hair out, delighting when it became long enough for Maeve to plait into tiny little braids. When Maeve altered some old clothes into skirts for her, she spent hours whirling in place to make them flare out around her before collapsing in a dizzy, giggling heap.

But where Lilah flourished, her brother struggled. He lashed out often at Maeve and Alistair, sometimes without provocation. It worried Maeve a great deal. She clearly already adored Lilah, but Alistair could see the fear in her that they may have invited someone violent and unstable into their home.

When she confessed her fears late one night, Alistair held her and tried to reassure her. He knew if they could give him time, William could get past this. He'd seen the good in the boy, they both had, and Lilah wouldn't love him like she did if he was abusive. "Don't give up on him, Mae," he murmured quietly. "He needs us more than Lilah does. I know it's hard, but you can't let it close you off to him."

"I know," she replied, snuggling into his chest. "I know. It's just that he's so…so _angry_. He won't let me help."

"Just give him time. Don't push and try to hurry him along. Just be there when he does need you."

Maeve nodded. "I'll try."

* * *

With regular meals, both children thrived physically. They lost the gauntness in their cheeks and limbs, filling out so that the shadows of their ribs could no longer be seen.

Holding Alistair to his promise, William began learning very basic sword techniques. He wasn't defenseless, especially with a knife or dagger, but he'd received no formal training. Alistair wasn't sure if the boy was even suited to the same style as he was—right now his build favored a more rogue-like technique—so he taught him the basics. If it turned out William was better off training in something else, he wouldn't have much to unlearn.

This training, combined with the work he did for Maeve during the day, on top of his already voracious appetite as a near-starved teenager, led him to eat nearly as much during meals as Alistair did. It became almost a competition between the two of them, seeing how much each could tuck away while Maeve and Lilah looked on in amazement.

* * *

Slowly, day by day, William lost some of his wariness. He began letting others help him without the muttering or sullen comments. While not nearly as open and affectionate as Lilah, he did begin to warm up. And as more time passed, he mentioned the possibility of leaving less and less. He talked more about their past, sharing what he could remember of their life before their mother died and after.

William had also revealed that he was fourteen and Lilah was ten, but that he didn't know when their namedays were. After some discussion, they let the children pick their own namedays. Lilah picked the day a tiny gray kitten adopted her, declaring him the best present ever. William picked a day in midwinter, seemingly at random. When Alistair asked, he merely responded, "It's the day Ma died. I don't wanna forget." Alistair just nodded, clasped his shoulder, and mentally noted not to tell Maeve.

* * *

After about six months, William stopped mentioning leaving. He and Lilah had their own rooms, furnished with things just for them. Maeve was teaching Lilah how to bake and cook, and William continued helping out around the shop and home, and focusing more on what training he could. Both children received reading lessons and Alistair imparted what knowledge he remembered from his Chantry education.

Life settled into a new pattern. A busy, hectic whirlwind of activity filled with squabbles and frustration and more _happiness_ than Alistair could ever remember in his life. More often than not, he would fall into bed at night with Maeve utterly exhausted…and completely content.

Their quixotic little family grew and knit together, becoming a single unit as they learned how to live _together_ and not just with one another. The day Lilah first called Maeve "Mama," his wife burst into tears. And one night during supper, when the little dark-haired girl called him "Papa," spoken easily and without thought, he had to leave the table, overcome by emotion so strongly that he needed some moments to gather himself.

Alistair hadn't prayed in years, but then he sent a fervent whisper to whoever was listening. "Thank you." Everything he had been through, every moment of suffering—to have what he had right now, it was all _worth it_.


	15. Where the Heart Is Chapter 4

**Two Years Later**

The supper table was noisy as the family sat down, William and Lilah exchanging angry words and looks.

Alistair raised his voice to be heard, trying to get his children to stop arguing and wondered if he was going to have to physically separate them now. That would be more difficult than it once was. Lilah was still small and slight—he had a feeling she always would be, the deprivations of her childhood leaving a permanent mark—but William had shot up like a weed in the last year, and he started to add some muscle to cover his still growing frame.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down! What _is_ the problem with you two?"

Still glaring daggers at her brother, Lilah said, "He punched Peter!"

"Peter?" He looked over at his wife, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"The miller's son," Maeve supplied helpfully. "He's the one who delivers flour for me."

"He kissed her!"

Alistair and Maeve's heads snapped over to look at William, who looked quite smug and pleased with himself, and then at Lilah, who had the good grace to blush and look down.

"I see," he said carefully and looked back at his son. "And where does this Peter live?"

Lilah's head flew up, her eyes going wide in disbelief and her mouth opening to protest when she was interrupted by the sharp slap of Maeve's hand coming down flat on the table.

"Oh, Andraste's flaming sword, enough!" She glared at them until they looked away. "The two of you overgrown children are not going to go harass some poor boy because he kissed a pretty girl he likes. Now…eat!" These last words were punctuated by a stern glare and finger jabbed pointedly in their direction.

There was a brief murmur of "Yes, ma'am" and then everything grew quiet as they ate, quiet murmurs of asking someone to pass something replacing the arguments of earlier.

They were nearly done when the bell attached to the back door downstairs rang. William leapt up. "I'll get it," he called, and took the stairs down to the first floor two at time, with the type of heedlessness only found in the young.

Alistair stood, wiping his hands and mouth with his napkin before he and Lilah began to clear the table. The quiet murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs before William's head poked back up the stairway. "Alistair? There's a man here says he wants to talk to you. He said he knows you and that you sent him a message."

A quick glance confirmed the location of his sword, and Alistair nodded to his son. "Show him up."

"A visitor so late?" Maeve asked as she took a bowl from him. "Trouble, you think? With the guard?"

Alistair shook his head, frowning. "No, I don't think so. Will said I sent a message, but I didn't send any today. Or lately. Your guess is as good as mine."

From the stairs, he heard his son practically charging back up, as well as a heavier, slower tread as the unknown man followed him. "Right up here," William said, and Alistair wiped his hands once more, turning to greet their visitor.

The questions he'd started preparing immediately flew out of his head as the man came up the stairs and fully into view, and his jaw dropped open in shock.

"Teagan!"

He gave a quick, disbelieving bark of laughter and then crossed the room swiftly to catch the older man in a rough hug.

"Teagan! Maker's breath, it really is you!" He laughed again as Teagan returned the embrace, a thousand thoughts whirling in his head.

"Come in, come in. Sit down. Let me get your cloak." Teagan nodded and shrugged the garment off, handing it to Maeve who offered her hand. Alistair gestured to the living area, and sat down on the couch after Teagan had settled into an armchair. "I have to say this is a surprise. What are you doing here? Wait, hold on, let's get introductions out of the way first."

He stood again and gestured for the others to come join them. Maeve had pulled back to give the men privacy if they wanted, but William and Lilah were clearly burning with curiosity. Maeve slid under the curve of his arm as he held it out. "This is my wife, Maeve, and our children, William and Lilah. This is Bann Teagan."

"Arl Teagan, actually," Teagan correctly quietly and frowned slightly at Alistair's startled look. "We've much to discuss, Alistair. But I am truly delighted to meet your family."

He bowed gallantly over Maeve's and Lilah's hands with all the courtliness a true gentleman could, and extended his to William. "It is truly a pleasure to meet all of you." Lilah giggled breathlessly, her cheeks a rosy pink and Alistair just rolled his eyes.

"Are you from Ferelden, like Papa?" Lilah asked, settling herself next to her brother as Maeve sat down beside him.

"Yes, I am," Teagan replied, sitting back into his own chair with a quiet sigh. Now that they were settling down, Alistair took a moment to take a good look at Teagan. It hit him as a shock to realize that Teagan was _old_. A quick mental count of the years that had passed since he left Ferelden and he was stunned to realize it had been nearly thirteen years. In that time, Teagan's auburn hair had become streaked with gray, the lines on his face etched deeper—and not all from smiles and laughter.

"Are you and Papa good friends?"

Teagan hesitated a moment and looked over at Alistair. "I'd like to think I could call myself your father's friend, though it has been a long time since we've seen each other."

"We are, Teagan," Alistair confirmed. "There are many I would not call a friend, but I've always thought of you as such."

"That is good to hear, and a relief. I'd hoped that might be the reception I received after your letter, but I wasn't sure."

"The letter! It'd been so long that I'd forgotten all about it." Several months ago, Alistair—at Maeve's urging—had sent a letter to Teagan. He didn't dare to think that anyone had missed him, or even wondered about him, but Teagan had always been an honest man. Alistair had at least wanted to let him and Eamon know that he wasn't dead and was doing fine.

But there had been no response. Months had passed with not so much as a note saying they didn't care. He'd begun to think it had never arrived.

"I apologize for the delay," Teagan said. "Things have been…turbulent at home. It was some time before I could arrange to leave."

"Are you a nobleman?" William asked.

Again, a slight hesitation from Teagan and a glance at Alistair. "Yes. I'm the Arl of Redcliffe."

Alistair drew a quick breath. "Eamon—" he began, but the older man held up his hand.

"My brother yet lives, Alistair, but he is not well. The poisoning, the loss of Isolde, the wrangling with Anora…they all took their toll. He pushed himself as much as he could, but once Connor left for Tevinter, there was nothing to drive him anymore. He gave the arling to me and retired to a smaller country estate. It's helped, but I don't think he has more than a few years left. He…asked me to tell you that he is sorry for what happened. And to ask if you might consider coming home to visit him."

Alistair sucked in a quick breath and leaned against the back of the couch. "Teagan, I…." He trailed off, looking over at his children whose eyes kept going back and forth between the two men. There was much to be discussed, and very little of it would be fit for his children's ears. In time, perhaps, he would reveal to them certain truths, but that time wasn't now, and certainly not in this context.

Maeve—wonderful, intuitive woman that she was—sensed his quandary and rescued him with her considerable tact and aplomb.

"Come, children," she said, getting to her feet. "Time for bed."

"What?" William yelped. "But it's not nearly time for us to go to bed!"

"And in compensation, you won't have to do dishes," Maeve offered evenly. "I'm not saying you have to sleep, but you are going to your rooms."

"But that's not—!"

"Now!" Maeve snapped, cutting off the rant before it could begin. Even Alistair sat up slightly straighter at the barked order. Had she aspired to it, Maeve could've shamed many a commander with her tone that brooked no argument.

Grumbling, William stood and sullenly walked down the hallway, muttering under his breath the whole time, until Maeve lost her patience and smacked him on the back of the head. He glared at her mutinously from under lowered brows, but fell silent. Maeve followed with Lilah in tow.

When the sounds of his family had faded, Alistair looked back over at Teagan to see the older man grinning at him. "That's quite a woman," he offered, and Alistair returned the grin.

"She certainly is. I assure you, she's the reason I'm alive right now." He sighed, rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and then leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. "But you're not here to talk about my wife, are you? I know that look, Teagan. I saw it far too often from far too many people. What aren't you telling me?"

Teagan leaned forward, mimicking Alistair's pose, and he shook his head. "No, I'm afraid it's not. Tell me, what have you heard about Ferelden recently?"

"Not much," Alistair admitted. "You'll forgive me, Teagan, but I try not to think too much about it. It's…easier that way."

The arl nodded. "I know, and I don't blame you for that. I think perhaps I should fill you in." He paused and narrowed his eyes, gathering his thoughts, and then nodded slightly.

"Things have been unsettled for some time. Right after the Blight, the whole country was fairly well united. People were still grappling with the after effects of the darkspawn taint and coming together to prevent famine and disease. We weren't entirely successful, but it could have been far, far worse."

Alistair winced at that. The land they had seen during their travels had been blighted, and it was a wonder that it recovered at all. That it happened enough to prevent widespread famine was extraordinary.

"Once the immediate danger had passed, things started to go back to the way they were. The Blight and civil war led to a large number of deaths, and in the power vacuum left behind, people's greed got the better of them. Normally, this wouldn't have been that bad, but there were other factors. One being that Orlais began making noises about reclaiming their lost province. They've made no overtly aggressive moves yet, but most suspect it's only a matter of time."

Here he paused and Alistair quirked an eyebrow. "And the other factor is…?"

Teagan gave a quick laugh. "Well, the biggest remaining factor is…Anora."

"Anora," Alistair stated blandly. "Last time I looked, she had things fairly well in hand. Don't tell me she's gotten tired of bossing everyone around." He looked up as Maeve came back into the room and settled back down beside him. Taking her hand, he squeezed it in silent thanks and she flashed him a warm smile.

"No, she hasn't gotten tired of it," Teagan replied. "Quite the opposite, really. But, before I go on, how much does Maeve know, Alistair?"

"Everything," he replied. "She knows everything, Teagan"

Teagan nodded in relief. "That makes things easier."

"You were saying about Anora?"

"Anora is fine. When all is said and done, she's a good queen. I won't lie and say everything is perfect and everyone is happy, but on the whole, Ferelden is prosperous. Anora is good at what she does, and furthermore enjoys her work."

Alistair grinned. "Better her than me, I always said. But I fail to see the problem."

"The problem is that Anora likes holding all the power a little too much. She never remarried, and it appears unlikely that she ever will. She's had no children, and unless the Maker intervenes with a miracle, she never will."

Dread settled in the pit of Alistair's stomach like a lead weight, and he shifted uncomfortable. His hold on Maeve's hand tightened, and he felt her fingers grip his back with a reassuring strength.

"You know the Bannorn, Alistair. With no heir, debate and concern has arisen over what will happen when Anora dies. Not," he added hastily, "that we expect that anytime soon. Anora could probably rule for another thirty or forty years quite easily. But Ferelden's recent history does not support a long lifespan for her monarchs and people are growing anxious. Already there's been argument and squabbling over who they think Anora will name as an heir."

"Teagan," Alistair said slowly, "please tell me you're not about to suggest what I think you are. Because your brother did this once, and I'm even less enthusiastic about the idea now than I was then."

"No, Alistair," Teagan said gently. "I'm not going to suggest you come back to settle the issue of an heir. Though I will admit, it was a possible solution, depending on what I found when I arrived here."

"Depending on what you found?" Maeve asked.

"Yes. Alistair's situation when I arrived would have determined much, the most crucial factor being if he had children."

Something dangerous flashed in Maeve's eyes. "He _does_ have children," she said tightly.

"My dear lady," Teagan said quietly, "I mean absolutely no disrespect. The home and happiness you've built here would be the envy of many I know. But you are from Ferelden, are you not? Surely you remember the pull of the Theirin bloodline. It is not a lineage lightly cast aside, and many would follow any who carried the name. I am not saying that is something that should happen, but it is true nonetheless. If Alistair had children of his blood, however, it would be one possible solution to the problem we now face."

"I swore oaths, Teagan. I swore off the Theirin bloodline. That would preclude any children I did have from being in line for the throne."

Teagan laughed. "And if the Landsmeet decided it, Alistair, those oaths would mean nothing."

"They mean something to me."

"I know they do, Alistair. I know." Teagan sat back and wiped a hand across his face. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. Your word has never been in question. I think, perhaps, you would not have made so terrible a king as you think."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome. In many ways, I'm relieved to cross that possibility off my list. It very likely would have caused as many problems as it solved. Don't worry, I'm not going to propose you make a bid for the throne."

"Thank the Maker!"

Teagan joined in with Alistair's chuckling, and then coughed. Maeve leapt to her feet.

"Oh, what a horrible host I am. I'm sorry, Arl Teagan, would you like some tea?"

"Just Teagan, please," he nodded. "And some tea sounds lovely, though I wouldn't object if you had something stronger."

Maeve's gaze caught Alistair's, and the silence turned uneasy for several moments. Alistair swallowed, cleared his throat, and looked Teagan in the eye.

"We don't have anything stronger, I'm afraid. It's best that we not have it in the house. I'm sorry."

There was a second of confusion in Teagan's eyes before understanding dawned in his face, and he gave a quick nod. Alistair found himself profoundly relieved that he didn't have to explain.

"No apology necessary," Teagan said, and Maeve nodded and bustled into the kitchen.

"So now that I'm not a contender for a fancy chair I don't want, what else do you want from me?"

Laughing, Teagan shook his head. "Eamon does still want to see you, Alistair. Despite all that happened, he considered himself responsible for what happened to you. Seeing you alive and healthy would probably do him a lot of good, and certainly make his remaining years less stressful. And I love my brother enough to do what I can to help him."

As Maeve put the kettle on and fixed mugs, Alistair mulled over what Teagan had told him. He'd never forgotten Ferelden, not really, and the arl's visit had stirred his curiosity. Perhaps it wouldn't be so out of the question to go back, just once, and finally put all of his demons to rest.

"Perhaps a visit might be arranged," he said quietly. "I can't stay, there's no way Anora would ever allow it, even I know that. And my life is here. But…I might like to say goodbye, properly this time."

Teagan nodded. "I would like that, I truly would. And you need not worry about expenses." Holding up a hand to forestall Alistair's objection, he continued, "Redcliffe has been prosperous these past several years, and both Eamon and I have been quite frugal. Allow us to do this for you and your family, Alistair."

After a moment of hesitation, Alistair nodded. "All right."

"Excellent!" Teagan clapped his hands and rubbed them together in satisfaction. "Ah, thank you, my dear," he said to Maeve as she came in, somehow carrying three mugs in one hand, a pie in the other, and a stack of plates and forks balanced on her arm. Alistair leapt up to take the plates from her arm, and then mugs for himself and Teagan.

"I overheard your conversation," she said to Teagan as she sat down and deftly sliced and served pie, "and I've no objection to going back to Ferelden—I have many fond memories as well—but are you sure it will be safe?"

"Yes, I think so, though I'd sooner not go around shouting Alistair's last name. And I'd recommend avoiding Denerim and Amaranthine, just to be on the safe side."

"Amaranthine?" Alistair asked. He knew to avoid Denerim because of Anora, but why the arling?

"I, uh, well," Teagan tugged at his collar. "The Grey Wardens hold Amaranthine, Alistair, and I think is best if we not walk into the Warden-Commander's stronghold. She's…been known to hold grudges."

The Grey Wardens.

The Warden-Commander.

Solona.

Alistair's lips thinned. "Right then. No Amaranthine. Highever?"

"Yes, I'd say that would be for the best."

Alistair nodded decisively. "Good. I'd always wanted to visit Highever."

Maeve's inquiring glance caught his eye and he shrugged. "Kind of stupid, really. Duncan said he was from Highever, and during the Blight..." He trailed off, swallowing against an old, dull burn of grief for the man who'd been the first to truly value him. "During the Blight, I'd always thought I'd go up there and put up some kind of memorial. As we all know, I never got around to it."

There was a thoughtful sound from Teagan. "You know, Alistair," he said slowly, "you might be able to still do that. The Teyrn of Highever, Fergus Cousland, is a good man. He lost much during the Blight himself, and would no doubt be open to the idea of honoring your request."

Alistair frowned, struggling to recall what had happened during that frantic year in Ferelden. "Cousland? I thought…didn't they all die? I recall something about Howe massacring them during the Blight."

"Yes," Teagan said heavily. "He killed all those at Highever, including the teyrn's young son. Fergus himself was at Ostagar, and thought lost, until he was discovered as a captive among the Chasind. He reclaimed his teyrnir and rebuilt it. In fact, he's currently being floated as the most likely heir for Anora. He or one of his children. The Cousland line is older than even the Theirin, and carries a great deal of weight and respect, especially given what he went through."

"And your wanting to help with a monument for Duncan wouldn't have anything to do with perhaps me giving the teyrn and those who support him my blessing, now would it?" Alistair asked dryly.

Teagan cleared his throat guiltily. "That thought may have, ah, crossed my mind. Forgive me, Alistair. As much as it pains me, these days I don't have the luxury of looking at much without the considering the possible political ramifications."

"It's fine, Teagan." Alistair waved off the apology. "You're better off just being honest. I've no objection to doing that, especially if it keeps me and my family safe."

After that, Maeve turned their conversation to lighter, more pleasant topics. Teagan and Alistair discussed their work—which seemed equally fascinating to each man—and smaller, less important matters from Ferelden. By the time they realized it had gotten very late, and made arrangements to talk again the next day, Maeve had cleaned up the dishes and gone to bed.

Alistair showed Teagan to the door, and was clasping the older man's arm in farewell, when Teagan hesitated. "Actually, Alistair, if you have a bit more time, I brought something with me for you. I wasn't sure I should bring it with me tonight, but now I don't think I want to wait any longer."

"All right, lead on."

The walked through the cool night air to Teagan's inn. It was a fine establishment, but far from the most expensive accommodations Teagan could have booked. Alistair could tell that its more rustic, homey atmosphere appealed to the arl's Fereldan good sense. A sleepy barkeep nodded as they entered and climbed the stairs.

Unlocking the door, Teagan waved Alistair in, and then set about lighting some of the lamps with a lit taper after coaxing a small fire from the banked coals of the fireplace. That done, he unlocked and opened a trunk resting against a wall. Even wrapped in linen as they were, the shape of the three bundles he removed was unmistakable. Alistair frowned as the first two were laid on a table—clearly weapons, most likely a sword and dagger—and then a third large one, which could only be a shield. With his hand, Teagan gestured for Alistair to take them.

Alistair selected the sword first, and as soon as he began pulling the wrappings off, he had to stop and catch his breath and close his eyes for a moment. Then with all haste, he tore the cloth the rest of the way off, and then just as swiftly uncovered the dagger and shield.

How long had it been since he'd seen these items, held them in his hands, used them for the purpose for which they'd been forged?

"How—?" he started to ask and then stopped, memory crushing the words from his throat with its weight.

"You left them," Teagan said quietly. "At Eamon's Denerim estate. You left almost everything, and while Eamon couldn't stop Solona from taking the armor you found at Soldier's Peak, or Anora from taking Cailan's armor, he did put his foot down about these. When I told him about your letter, and that I was coming to find you, he asked me to bring them."

For long minutes, Alistair just leaned heavily on the table, his vision filled with bright metal, worn leather hilts, and a griffon, proud and rampant, emblazoned on the shield, the symbol of everything he'd once been so proud to be. The last belongings of a good man, taken long before his time.

"Thank you," he said thickly. "I didn't hope to think they'd survived. This means…more than you can know."

Without another word, Teagan caught Alistair's shoulder in a strong grip. They carefully rewrapped the weapons, and Alistair slipped the straps of the shield over his arm to bring it home.

"We'll talk more tomorrow, Alistair," Teagan said. "But for now, I think your wife might be concerned if she wakes up to find you not at home."

"You're right. Thank you again, Teagan."

"My pleasure. And I must say I am profoundly glad that I was able to find you. You seem very happy, Alistair."

Alistair didn't even have to think before grinning and nodding his head. "I am happy, Teagan. More so than I ever thought possible. What I have now…was out of my reach for most of my life. And I wouldn't trade it now for anything."

The walk back home was quiet and uneventful. Alistair let himself back into the house, locked the door behind him, and then made his way upstairs, putting out the few remaining lamps. Maeve murmured sleepily as he slid into bed beside her after shedding his clothes, and he pulled her tight against him. She cuddled into the touch, and dropped back off to sleep. Alistair lay beside her, reveling in the absolute peace and contentment he found here in his home with his family, and drifted off to sleep himself, the last of his demons finally put to rest.

* * *

Author's Note: From the reviews, I've noticed that I apparently faield to adequately indicate that this is the end of the tale. Alistair and his family are in a good place here, and there's nothing to be gained by going over a trip to Ferelden. He will go, make his peace with Eamon and his country, and then go home with his family. We dont need to see it, so let's leave him here, happy in the arms of the woman he loves. Thank you all for coming with us on the ride!


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